Blood and Silver
by scratchmarred
Summary: The Black lineage has always considered itself above all wizardry kin, with no true evidence of their blood superiority. Until in 1855, when a best left forgotten tale haunts their very lives... (time period of the Grindelwald uprising)
1. Brodick Black: The first of Arts

**Brodick Black, 1859**

  There comes a time in each man's existence, when passion does meet a meaning in one's endeavors, and in doing so it makes of us little but slaves to urges we cannot hold back. And disgrace should normally pursue, for it is feeble, to lust, and above all, to estimate one's powers beyond the borders to truly limit them. The last is a sentiment generated simply enough – we all deem to think that which we want can be reached, touched, embraced. We all desire the element of our passion. And believe we are worthy enough to obtain it.

   But some of us have greater expectations than others. And some of us, just some of us, know when to draw the line.

  Naturally, this was hardly my case. I had always humored my vanity in evaluating my Alchemy skills as exquisite. Transfiguration – advanced Transfiguration, that is- centered on more than one field of study. And the most intriguing and immensely satisfying could be and was none other than that in which I privately thought I could excel.

   Descending from a lineage with high performances in the domain, I trusted my magical abilities would also hold a certain inclination towards it. They did, and my increasing fascination for such a wondrously enigmatic subject only came to aid in the choice of my one and most cherished lover. Beautiful, voluptuous Alchemy.

  Unsurprisingly, Father's own affinity in its concern settled a sort of predisposition for it. Then again, it is quite unavoidable for a young man to look up to his Father's ordeals as the peak of moral and aristocratic occupations. That he was also part of the Order of Change, a very much official and select gathering motivated by exactly the brand of studies I favored, meant I was to also always receive first hand information and detailed reports on the newest discoveries in the field. So, my passion was enhanced.

   Was I truly to blame? No, I told myself, again and again, each time thought of my one weakness would reach me.

  And it was also no that I said that day, at the end of August, when Father and I were again caught in one of our endless conversations in respect to our shared work:       

   "I think that's quite enough dragon blood."

  We had adjoined for an hour in the little mansard Father had – in spite of all of Mother's reprimands in depriving her of an excellent location for another receiving chamber- transformed to a minuscule laboratory. It was unacceptable, he had deemed, for there to be no place for preparations and brewing in an Alchemist's home, and he would take none of it, and build his room, even if it meant it would have to remove the ballroom. The last perspective had dreaded Mama enough as to cause her immediate silencing on the matter. So there was no word on her behalf, when the arrangements were made to bring in the tables and pendulums and measure devices, and even the clocks. She even managed a smile in seeing her two "beautiful gentlemen" so very captivated by how the interior finally presented itself, and I do believe all regret for her possible receiving chamber was then lost.

   And yes, it was a glorious ensemble of tools and pieces skillfully displayed so to serve the wielders at their best. I loved being there – it made me feel so much closer to my goal, even by stepping in. One could say, it heightened my beliefs in "touching" the passion, as earlier put.

  This time, Father and I were discussing the probable formula of the cold fire. We knew – all of us- as a sign of the gifted towards the Art of Dueling. It was, on a small scale, represented by the wizardry fire. Stripes of blaze and perilous effect, but with no energy spent, no heat. It was a mystery on which the Order of Change had settled as topic of current study, and I had pleaded with Father to show me their results long enough so for him to actually decide on doing so. The price, however, had been simple enough. I was not to pester him with additional theories.

   I had been exceptionally quiet, when he'd read the means out, and bit my tongue a few times, in hearing one or more delicate areas where we had predominantly different point of views. But I could not keep back in hearing the modus operandi for an also problematic potency potion. The last, a miracle of Alchemy as well, most often showed its valor in combination with several other potions that needed strengthening. It increased the magical root – and therefore magical power- implemented, and played a substantial part in the entire affair.

  And here Father had added an enormous quantity of dragon blood that I couldn't for the life of me see as fit.     

   "Don't be a fool and listen to reason." Father said, raising his sharp cobalt eyes – an undisputed family trait- to measure me with cold disapproval. He was seated in one of the few sofas around, and there was paper all around him. 

  Father, a somewhat young man in late thirties, did not favor indolence. He was a man of motion, unable to stand at one place for all too long, and this was heavily reflected in his choice of furniture. Shifting uncomfortably, in hopes of finding some angle where the hard back of the chair would no longer torment my own, I decreed that all seats must have been selected on their ability of making the seated wish to depart in a hurry. I rose from my place, made to move to one of the larger windows. Alchemy, as a subject with half a root in Potions, demanded a place of work with proper lighting and mean of providing air. Besides, there was no telling when something could go wrong and they could also earn themselves a third use of exits. 

  "Why exactly is the Order of Change supporting all these new studies on the Potency Potions?" I tested, barely holding back a great many other inquiries of a much more blatant quality. This sort of straightforwardness was vulgar, I knew, but I still had to know…

  "Is it because they are preparing a thesis to contest those of Grindelwald on the matter?" He eyed me, for a long moment. "Is this how far things have reached? Has he earned himself that much power in the Ministry that his absurd evaluations demand riposte?"

  He frowned, and in a moment I knew I had gone over my limits. Ulrich Grindelwald was not a fashionable subject beneath our roof, just as I believed it was not under any. The Grindelwald heir, descending from a curious line – there was even word on there having once existed a Muggle ancestor, of all things…- but with considerable enough wealth and influence as for none to ask the improper questions, was cause for great dispute indeed. Personally, I could only think of one sole worthy attribute for Grindelwald, and that was chronic insanity.

  By own knowledge, he too was an Alchemist, and held a fascinating repertoire of accomplishments in the field. His theories, however, were beyond revolutionary, and much rather extended to sheer heresy to any rational belief. It was why, I had assessed, he had not been embraced by the ilk of the Order of Change, and still functioned as a freelancer, with no duty to the Ministry. All good and settled, then, as it was my opinion that if one is happy in a Dementor's grasp, why not let him or her suit her fancy, as long as no other party is to suffer?

  But there had come the slight problem. Others would be affected. He'd published theories on how magical abilities could be doubled by Alchemical efforts on the human spirit and even – Salazar forbid it!- conducted experiments on live subjects. Here, the Ministry had been forced to intervene and oppose him. And here, Grindelwald had drawn out his entire set of cards. Blackmail, political power, galleons, whatever was required so for silence on the matter to be imposed. To ensure this would be respected, he even steadily began an ascension within the political ranks. To the outsider's eye, he was no more than another Counselor of Science – the Order of Change would still not have him – but to those well enough versed in the affair, it was quite obvious, after a few movements against his opponents, as to who exactly held the strings. 

  Word that he even held as much power as to overrun the current Minister, Veritus Cain, had come out, and with valid claims. There had been public sanctions against Grindelwald, and Cain had gone as far as decreeing all to share his unfortunate inclinations were unworthy of the society they lived in. It had been rather amusing, one day, to read between the fair lines of the most "subjective" – a decent pay to the main editor assured an article would subtly take a certain direction-  paper, the Daily Prophet, and find Grindelwald chastised in one commentary, then cheered in another. Ill synchronization had, it would seem, abounded in that edition. 

  But within a few months, the situation had gone from muddle to chaos, and the Ministry found itself in more dirt than it could fight off, cover with Galleons or swallow. Squibs all around issued pleas, and soon enough protests, in that   Grindelwald's studies represented their chance to grasp a heritage long denied to them. They eagerly submitted to support the madman, and, what was worst was that they actually had a ruddy point. How could they not believe him, when the Ministry only chose to oppress his studies with no coherent foundation? How could they not think there was a sort of conspiracy to keep back squibs from their rightful positions? How could they not make a martyr out of the man, when he was presumed their last hope?

   Fools. All of them. 

  But the Ministry couldn't afford to prohibit Grindelwald's pieces anymore, just like it couldn't afford to accept them either. So where oppression hadn't functioned, and diplomacy was not an issue, logics were requested. And the Order of Change was called on to counter each wretched study with one twice as voluminous proving the opposite. 

  Trouble was, to deny anything, one was to examine the initial theory in all depth. There weren't many men willing or capable – despite his other absurdities, Grindelwald was one of the best…- to undergo this sort of an ordeal.

  And Father, as their elite, had been entitled to this very task. How richly divine. A pity it implied so much secrecy…   

  "Human – magical breeding…" I said, naming the theme of his last design, "Merlin, does the man have no God?"    

  "Grindelwald is his own god," I thought I could hear him mutter beneath his breath, but he made no gesture as to having truly paid attention to his own comment. Instead, he merely went over our calculus up to the date, carefully encrypted on a piece of scroll in his organized handwriting. He was evidently in no disposition to talk Ulrich Grindelwald's actions through. 

   "This is just the needed quantity," he scribbled the new measure, then regarded me questioningly – most probably due to my standing still. Immediately, I loathed his comfort, and how he could actually bear those despicable seats, but I knew that to say so would be the very proof of having been utterly spoiled. And this was certainly not the done thing at all.

  But neither could I linger standing sans realization downing on him soon enough. Silently, I neared the windows close enough as to at least give the impression of following something outside. The autumn sun, shining on Mother's gardens, emphasized herbaceous borders crammed with a variety of orchids and roses, which, as she had issued, were so terribly romantic. This assessment in no way came to encourage me in adoring the fields, but I was alone in such demeanor, since Mother herself often enough graced it with her exquisite presence. Even now, for instance, she stood there, at a little round table meant to serve at most three, in the ever-select company of Moira Lestrange. 

   The last was a common attendant of our home, as was her husband, who had befriended Father on account of their similar profession. It was no wonder, years after, when Declan Lestrange – the proud heir- and I were acquainted, that a certain sense of understanding settled in quite easily enough. 

  They were chatting merrily as women – what could one demand of their gender? – often did, and – I narrowed my view further. Something small and all covered in gray was revolving around Mother…hair of a light chestnut, not the darken blond of my own…petite frame…all dirty and jesting…heh, who else but my lovely junior brother? Yes, yes, it was he. Tea had been brought, and he was holding the cup with both hands, as if a bowl of soup. I knew no one else to indulge in this, and while Father often enough warned him against it, naming it a sign of bad mannerisms, his merry smile and mirthful eyes, as he nodded to say he understood stated clearly he'd keep doing this. Ah, Phineas…     

  I couldn't quite claim love for Mother, merely something short to respect and sympathy. She was a woman, after all, and consequently deprived of most the intellectual habits – and even cravings to such- of a man. She never had nor ever would know our knowledge or our degree of worth, and she'd also helped in bringing me forth the world, so how could I not care for her a bit? But it was entirely different with Phineas. Him, I could honestly accept as object of my affections. And he was so loving and entertaining, and delightful, and such a smart child…of course I loved him. 

   I blinked off a moment of surprise as sound reached me softly, and I realized Father must have said something. Turning, I found him eyeing me silently, with reprimand conveyed through one stern glare:    

   "The dragon blood," he repeated steadily, choosing to say nothing on my distraction, "will offer it potency and therefore endurance."

   "And just how is it you've run over that particular bit of intelligence, sir?" sarcasm dripped through my words, but I took no note of this. Cocking a brow, I gave him a look of sheer gloom. I hadn't run over in any such sort of information in my collection of tomes, and Merlin knew I'd made a personal habit of consulting and lecturing them little but daily. This could in no way have escaped me. Besides, I was in the mood for a good intellectual gamble:

   "It's not mentioned in any book. I tell you, there's enough dragon blood."

  His scowl deepened. "No, there isn't. Don't choose this precise time to rebel. If heated on a prolonged time, it is formidable for potency potions, no matter what your books say on it."

  A sharp, biting shriek echoed forcefully through the corridors, and then transformed to a series of loud cries. Father and I were both on our feet in an instant.  

  "My child…." Again came a cry, and the voice was Mother's, as much I knew. But…mother…Phineas, I thought. Is Phineas hurt? Is Phineas-  

   "Blood!" came another shout, and this time it had been birthed by a darken figure to have suddenly appeared at the door.

   "Rhosyn?" I tested, brushing a hand over my eyes, as I named one of our house elves. 

   She paid me no notice and only eyed Father. 

  "Master! It's Lady!" there was unquestionable despair in her words, and she mimicked greatly, again only a sign of ill omen.  "Blood spilling from lady!" she spat, as a tear stripped her cheeks.

   I froze in my place. Time grew my captor, and all too suddenly, I felt cold all over. Mother's words again rang shallow in the back of my mind "My child…" and then the cries, always the cries. Child…blood…Merlin…she was – she had been- she- pregnant? But I hadn't known of any such thing, I had not been informed of it, I had not…I… she couldn't be pregnant! There could not be another heir, I would not allow it, damn it all to hell, I wouldn't! This all was – Mother couldn't be – I…

  One word alone seemed to resume my inner riddle, and I summoned all its power in a short murmur:  "What?"

  Father sped to cross the room, rushing Rhyson in front of him. He only turned to address me, before leaving entirely. An immense pallor had engulfed his features and I knew, it to probably be one that I shared. 

   "Call for Merrick at once!" I eyed him, caught aback, before he slipped past the door.

   Merrick…call Merrick. Merrick…who…I clasped both hands onto the sides of my head, then paced forward slightly…what to do, Merrick, Mother crying…child…what child? Merrick…Then cogency took its blessed reign, and that one second – damnable, however insignificant in terms of true period of motion- was forgotten. I reached the nearest quill and scroll, then hurriedly the words were spawn in a negligent, almost chaotic style, so very different from my common manner…

  "Healer Merrick…" I murmured some of the words absently as I noted in great speed "come quick…mother…blood…losing…" I dropped the quill and then dashed out the word, hurrying to the owlery. Even as I did so, silver inking – as was fashionable amidst the missives of our lineage, to replace the much too common jade- sparkled subtly on the last word held on the corner.

   "…child…" 

  I was to have a brother. And how curious that this announcement would come through such a dreaded display of the flesh's weakness and trifles. My first call was that a natural death, before the dreaded beast could gain its abominable place within my aversions, was a most admirable pursuit indeed. I was quite pleased with that this baby could oblige me by fading away into the oblivion of our memories. 

  A few tears from mama, a nice bouquet of flowers from me, and – oh, look, problem solved. No other heir in front of which was to constantly excel, no other little threat for a station I knew with sharp accuracy to belong to me and me alone. True, fate had been most generous in bestowing upon me sweet little Phineas, with no care in the world and, implicitly, no sense in the field of fraternal competition. Phineas didn't want to be the best, just as he didn't want any of what rightfully corresponded to me, and I had been pleased enough by this choice of demeanor on his behalf – so very conflicting to that normally sported by younger brothers in families of our rank-  as to shower him with veritable love.

    But a new sibling, I felt, would not serve my purposes as either willingly or efficiently. So of course it ought to die, why shouldn't it? I wanted it to die, and to blazes with everything else. It deserved to die, and I calmly wagered on my chances in it doing so. A miscarriage wasn't too painful, was it? Well, I wouldn't know. 

  Besides, my elementary notions on the affair of the female organism and of the entire process of reproduction granted that, should the child have been in an incipient stage enough as for the pregnancy not to be noticeable – and although I admitted that mother had been, as of late, crowning her commonly delicious taste of garb by a slightly outsized attires to reveal none of her alluring curves, I deemed that I would have noticed had there been any a true enlarging in her body. A pregnancy was not something one could hold back for too long, now was it?   

  So, if she hadn't put on too much weight, then the baby could not have been produced for more than three months – which, on a larger scale, simple pointed to that it wasn't even quite human yet. Which is to say, not a veritable individual. It had no mind, it had no heart – it had to die! 

    It couldn't possibly grow to be the weed of my sins and drag me down from the glorious future I knew to await me. It couldn't. I wouldn't let it. It had to die – die- die- _die_!  

   And I was quite content with that it was going. Yes…

 …but fact of the matter was, that this – what I was feeling – my very outlook – was not the done thing at all. This sentiment to largely trap all other senses in a thin treacherous net was hardly one on which I could rely. I was an Alchemist, I obeyed only one master, and this was logic. And logic decreed that jealousy was a theorized impossibility, and that it was merely an obstacle for the weak mind and equally flawed spirit. But I wasn't weak. I wasn't flawed. 

  I was a Black. Blacks reigned above all impediments with a determination and magnitude governed by intellect and the fortitude of his character. So I would do the right thing – the only thing – that I could.

     I drew the line. 

   And silently, I began poisoning my thoughts with lies of caring for the baby, and of wanting it to live. And I told myself I would live past this event, and see to it that I impose upon myself love for the child, no matter the gamble, no matter the cost. There would be no wavering on my behalf of triumphing even in front of this new, admittedly discouraging, obstacle. I was to be free of all jealousy. It was how etiquette demanded it. 

   I had never much liked healers. I suspected it to be quite a natural tendency, at least for a trifling young man with presumably no care in the world, and who therefore could not –and should not- be pestered with the ominous breeze of reality and death that the mere presence of a healer would draw. But I had long decided to never be the average foolish heir with hormones waging an own private reign over all senses and control, and it was most likely this promise concerning the endurance of an overall composure to have played a most vital part in my current attitude to healer Merrick. 

  I had miraculously managed to maintain a placid, almost benign smirk onto my face for the entire regrettable gathering, and already there were signs of my patience and self-preservation growing very much thin. The very reason why healer Merrick had bothered with an attendance to our home, at the end of an uncharacteristically cold August, had only served to dim my attitude further.

  My sole fortune in the ordeal was that he had finished his task, and he was now preparing to leave. He had even been handed his long dusky cloak, and, under Father's drained look, he could only sport a reassuring smile, - the type only healers can throw, and that, though are meant from the very heart as to encourage, only truly prevail in the exact opposite. It is common knowledge that when a healer indulges in a grimace, then there is more than an ounce of gravity to the entire situation.

   They had emerged from Father's study, where they had lingered rather obnoxiously for a good half an hour after _it_ had happened. It was highly insufferable of them, also not the done thing at all, to keep me so, in the dark, especially since I was only two years from becoming of age, and consequently most reliable. This had several times up to the date been proven, but the most recent addition to a one such fine line of evidence in the respect were the rumors flourishing amidst the properly positioned, of my future naming as Hogwarts' prefect, once I would commence my fifth year. The days were passing, and no owl had yet come, but I expected it to do so any a minute. My educational status was more than substantially suiting, and my demeanor was most appreciated indeed. 

  However, in spite of these estimable qualities, Father and healer Merrick had preferred to treat me with infuriating distance. As healer Merrick had pointed, situating himself lower still in my affections, I was, perhaps, much too innocent to handle a discussion concerning _it_. 

   One rarely excelled in the house of the Serpent sans a certain degree of eminence, given how all direct altercations were resolved on the dueling floor and how those other more subtle claims for power were bested only through an even tighter grasp of manipulation and understanding of the old ways. That I had even been proposed for prefect-ship in these conditions spoke quite highly of my endowments in this sense.           

  I had gritted my teeth, prepared a thousand speeches on how I had long now grown a man and deserved my position as such, despite of the two years still left for a general acknowledgment of this, but I was never offered the opportunity to say a word. Father, by one long, scrutinizing look, silenced me instantly.

 In retrospect, it was quite wondrous they had only delayed as much as they had, even though another quarter a clock would have proven quite disastrous to my nerves. I had sought some sort of refuge, sinking slowly on the first steps of the staircase leading up to the first flooring and the family quarters. I had clasped my hands on each side of my head, and I was slightly rocking back and forth, and trying to think, and think, and think, and all my thoughts led to _it_, and the chaos _its_ analysis succeeded in imposing on my commonly well-organized mind was torture.

  But it had ended, now; they had come out of the study. They were pacing easily through the corridor, making for the door; they were exchanging a few words, with healer Merrick's voice ringing its habitually low tone:   

  "I suggested its removal…but she said ' I could always renounce a new jewel or title. I could never renounce a child.' "

  "What an exceptional remark," said Father, and he had to step aside, for a moment, as between them slid Merrick's cane. Granted, not it alone, but in the shadowy background, this was the likely first impression. 

  I blinked off a few times, before gradually making out the small form of one of our house elves. Aristotle was his Black given name, and no one called him anything else, though normally house elves were not reprimanded for the usage of their own desired appellatives. Well, this was quite different. This was the Black residence. He had been first to see Mother, and to realize _it_ had happened, and I believed him to have been as unthinkably shocked as I. 

  Only, unlike myself, he actually showed his bewilderment and anguish, and he had spent his time since, running around, seeking something to do, in a fury of motion and little word, and constant tears. He had even punished himself on very numerous occasions. Poor sod. Must be he had thought he could do anything to prevent _it_. I had attempted to have a word with him – as much as to take my mind from the talk in the study as to calm him- but I hadn't quite got anywhere.       

  Grasping his cane, Merrick advanced a tad more, reaching the door that Aristotle had speedily opened for him. This attracted a small frown on Father's behalf, for he probably did not wish Merrick to think this gesture was an invitation to a swift departure. Our dear healer, however, only sketched another smile, and was quick in pointing to underline otherwise, through a subtle phrase: 

"She's an exceptional woman."

"Quite." This was I, finding it suitable to mark my presence by a one response still all too tainted by sarcasm. That they had not shared their conversation with me was unpardonable, by my reasoning, and I saw fault in the both. But since it was not the done thing at all to show anger to one's father, I vaguely attempted to direct it all towards Merrick. The last, however, was either extremely dense or surprisingly wise.

  He said nothing on the matter, merely stepped further, adjusting his cloak.

 "Cassius, I'd best leave you rest as well. This must have been an appalling experience for you. And you, young man," he eyed me slowly, and the flicker of concern in his bluish eyes was unmistakable "I shan't claim to know precisely what happened – there seem to be no signs of any displeasure…. We've only God to thank it was not a miscarriage, but merely a hemorrhage. Do make sure lady Vanora is lavished a few days. It would serve to heighten her spirits, if nothing else. Pregnancies bestow a depressing effect even sans these horrid events, so certain allowances are to be made."

"Indeed." 

 Father's comment held a certain note of finality that Merrick interpreted as his cue to be off. Silently, with one last glance to us both, he uttered his farewells:

"Goodnight, lord Black." Father nodded in acknowledgment. "Brodick."  I did the same. 

"The perspective of a sibling… does it bereave you?"

 We had somehow adjoined in his study, and until then I'd made a visible effort in not voicing my displeasure at his earlier course of action. But the price had been rather demanding. So much so that, not wanting to give in to any indeed overwhelming impulses, I'd indulged in an unbroken silence.

  Father's interpretation of this tranquility was evidently erroneous. My first thought was to deny it vehemently But one glance to him, steadily planted in his chair, with a benign expression somewhat forfeited by a set of deep grayish eyes – unforgivable eyes, as mama called them- told me not to attempt it. 

  Sincerity had always played an important part in our relations. I suspected it to be primarily why I, unlike many of my esteemed colleagues, could not join in the conversations waged at the high tables, when one regularly proclaimed adamant hatred for the paternal element and vowed for some sort of vengeance once we'd come of age.

  My thoughts digressed for a moment in recalling the most ardent of such examples, a certain amity of mine, Laurentius Hasek, famed for his wagers on just which, in what time and to what extent all our serpent associates would actually carry out their threats in respect to their sires. Yes, how was dear Hasek? Probably still dealing with his Potions assignments – how anyone could so cherish or even comprehend this subject was to me something of a dilemma. Hasek, nevertheless, had developed quite the obsession for it, and with time he had earned himself something short to a reputation in the field. He even seriously pondered the dreaded perspective of achieving a mastery in it – and he had devoted his entire vacation to his studies, if only to prove to his family he was obdurate in this. So far, he had written, he had made a great deal of progress in specific areas he had always meant to investigate.

  Would that I could claim the same. But, of course, Laurentius Hasek did not quite share my misfortune. He had not recently been informed of his mother expecting a third child, and all this, naturally, when the last had little but suffered a – how had Merrick called it- abortion?

  Oh dear indeed. As heir and fit for my age. I was not ingenuous in the art of copulation. Especially in its consequences. I fully understood my Father's need for carnal display, and, logically, I found Mother's acceptance of his desires as part of her responsibilities as spouse. Refusing one's husband – now that was hardly the done thing. In particular when it was by her doings that Father did not maintain a mistress in the outsides of Hampshire, as many of his class were known to. 

  But to mark their seventeenth year of marriage by conceiving for a third, well, one could only expect an amount of antipathy on my behalf! I was heir, was I not? They had my dear brother Phineas, eight years my junior, to ensure that, even in the unfortunate case of my loss or exclusion for any family rights, the lineage would hold a successor. So why a third? No, this was most infuriating. And why hadn't they told anyone – me – anything? 

  This was a rather disappointing mentality, I knew, and thoroughly ineffective, since I had had time to think all of it over, again and again, in that time when Merrick had occupied the entire of Father's attentions. After _it_ had happened.    

  Somehow, I was outraged by the perspective of a new sibling. Ironically, I could never think of it as a female companion. Again, paradoxically, my notion of "it" had suffered great change, from event to form. It was then that I knew I had, progressively, accredited the situation. Which hardly meant I was to approve or take pleasure in it. Either its.

  Merely that I had grown slightly more acquainted with the circumstances. I was o the house of the Serpent. I was to endure. 

"Should it?" I chanced, belatedly.

  "No." My inquiry shocked him. He showed this only by a subtle shift in his chair, but it sufficed for one who had learned to pick on even the smallest detail and theorize accordingly.

  He laid back a tad, supported his hand to his forehead. And he simply looked at me, for a moment, as if seeing me for the very first time.

  "Of course not. How trifling of me. You've always been one to understand, haven't you, Brodick?" Had he expected any answer, he was most likely disappointed in seeing none would come.  I would not ask any questions then and there. I was in no fit condition to analyze the responses, and what a waste it would be of a possible elucidation. 

   I exhaled. Yes, I was gaining control, yet again. 

 "And on all accounts, the situation shall in no fashion suffer any adjustments. Why ever would it?" he continued, on an absent tone. He seemed quite caught in his little remembrance. "I never regretted having you that early, you see. Always thought you'd be fit, and, pardoning the language, I'll be damned if I did not equal in that decision the foresight of a veritable Seer."

  He was rambling. Father never rambled. I resumed to following him closely, letting him speak his mind. It was by my belief that there had been some sort of verity to Merrick's words, and that Father truly was a tad engulfed by fatigue. I could not think of any other reasons why he could look so inexplicably pale, and wondrously contemplative. He was commonly a man of great vitality, as expected of one in his late thirties. This sort of drawback was not normally acceptable.

  I still admired his strength of character, however, though I supposed he'd known of Mother's pregnancy all along. There was no trace of bewilderment upon him, at this point, and of course I would have noticed had there at any time been any. I attempted to bring myself to face his response to the situation, just as I had the event itself, an hour before - so I devoted more and more of my attention to analyzing the study rather than keeping track of own emotions.

   Yes, it was as elegantly displayed as always, and Father's desk, the grand luxurious cherry wood flashing its alluring sparkle, crowned the chamber opulently. There were even tomes, piled about, and I had no doubt they viewed Father's favored field – and one in which I too had somewhat excelled- Transfiguration and Alchemy. I did notice, however, a new addition to the collection of tools he kept on the same table; most were for calculus, or even the processes demanded by studies. I'd learned, long ago, that Father's assortment could only be bested in variety by that of Hogwarts'. Still, there was something new.

  A little ivory device of a usage yet unknown to me. I made a note to check for its purpose as soon as time permitted it, but only indulged in its observation to that moment… it was a perfect circle, representing a tied string of orchid. And then, as if slicing it, there was the ivory incarnation of a serpent, the last's presumed writhing head stripping upwards, as if to bite the very air.      

  In spite of attracting my curiosity as apparently serving only as ornament, and Papa had never cared for non-practical devices, I smiled. The serpent invariably reminded me of the Slytherin crest. 

  Father, however, took no note of this. He simply carried on:

 "Such a remarkable child… and, of course, your mother needed a child. Some allowances are permitted to women, and this weakness of their nature, the craving for offspring on which to bestow all their affections is one of them. I suspect it gives them a certain reassurance… of still holding full power over something or someone…" he shrugged.

 "It's merely the same with her current whim. Your mother needs a new child to tend for. I expect she would have found fit to burden you with her attentions but, alas, such is hardly possible now, is it?"

  He sketched a faint smile, and I found myself unwillingly replicating it. Yes, it was a tad unattainable, given my age and presumed maturity, and Mama's indubitable expectations from someone she could cuddle incessantly.

 "Fifth year at Hogwarts…most fascinating indeed." I wished I quite share his enthusiasm, but all my previous anxiety had left room for an overwhelming consternation. All too suddenly, I was quite weary. Of everything.

 "Will that be all, sir?" 

 He raised his gaze from the flooring to again frame me ominously. "Yes. Yes, Brodick. Simply a last plea. Your mother's state is very much delicate. Her pregnancy is quite a difficult one. Do attempt –"

 "-not to pester her." He looked to me one long moment. It wasn't exactly the height of courtesy to interrupt one's Father when the last was preparing for some grandiose speech in what was and was not the done thing in such circumstances. "Of course, sir."

 "Very well, then. Off you go," said Father, lowering further in his chair. I made for the door, all the time thinking something was ghastly wrong. Papa had never been tired. It was under this sentiment that I stopped briefly to glance to him before stepping out. I caught his eyes still upon me.  

 "Oh-do send Aristotle in. I reckon it must be put to some use, now that Vanora has insisted in keeping it."

  "Master alright?"

 Aristotle's fearful found face greeted me as soon as he closed the door behind me. The deplorable little critter managed to surprise me as much as to even back away for an instant. It was curious how Mother had so persisted in retaining him aside her. Though why so, I could hardly reason. 

   There was an elf for the kitchens already – Rhosyn, as Mama kept to the old ways and denied them the prolonging of their own humorous appellatives. Of course, her choice had been a full reflection of her Welsh origins. Nothing else would have been adequate. The other help, Elisse, had somehow escaped Mama's baptism. Then again, she was French, and as the lady of the house so often deemed, if one was to entrust the education of children to such dubious hands for the mere reputation, then one would at least make sure all were in the knowledge of the last's origin. Apparently, to Mama, a French tutor committed, those days, the peak of fashion. So, of course, Elisse had been left to her doings. She was the family governess, and she also aided in affairs of administration. 

  There was no need for additional help, by my knowledge. And I prided in a constant awareness of the condition to all surroundings. Besides, Aristotle may have served with devotion, but he also did with clumsiness. Even now, for instance, there was a darken glitter on his hands, that he must have gotten from cleaning the closets.  

  "He is."

  The elf looked distressed: "Totle meant-" 

  "I am fine as well." I smiled and nodded. The loyalty of these creatures was ever flattering and at the same time puzzling. "Worry not. Father requests your assistance."

  "Elder Master 'eeved?"

  There was again terror in his voice, then, and I could tell that indulging in precise explanations would only delay me interminably. Placing a hand on the door knob, I grasped the last forcefully.

  "You've done nothing wrong. Aristotle. You've been…good." 

  "'Totle good. Good 'Totle." He nodded in turn, as if gradually wishing himself to acknowledge this, under the premise that, so, the "Elder master" would hold him in his graces. "Yes… 'Totle good."  

 "Where's…Phineas?" 

It was stupid of me to ask. I knew the answer even before it bled the crippled lips of the fledging:

  "Little Master in nursery," he murmured, and again there was that flicker of great sadness in his eyes that I could never quite explain. Nor tolerate, by that matter. One would have thought that this sort of lamentable expression would only suit his composure. Somehow, it didn't, and between the rags he bore and the stains of dirt, there was only a certain distasteful nobility to him. The last mostly drew from his eyes. Big blue eyes like his always had a stunning effect.

  I somehow managed to break from my contemplation and, on a much too startled tone for own liking, I murmured: 

  "Many thanks, Aristotle. Do attend to Father." I made to tell him he'd best remove the glitter off, but the words died on my lips. He seemed miserable enough as it was. Fingers tightened on the knob, and I took to rotating it slightly. He stepped forward, with evident reluctance, then stopped only to look up to me again:

  "Master…?"

 His whisper was barely audible, and even he seemed ashamed of the imploring quality of his voice, for his eyes lowered to the floor. I decided to be charitable. He was going to Father, after all. However, even in spite of my willed benevolence, the exasperation in my words was unmistakable:

  "Yes, Aristotle?"

  "Little master…not well, sir." 

  I froze in my place – for a moment I knew not what to say, and his pleading eyes came hardly to relieve me of my misery. Phineas…this was indeed most disturbing news. Phineas was never "not well". Phineas was my little brother of remarkable magnitude in the field of joviality of wishful thinking, the one of the two who favored dreams and tales and filtered them not through patterns of the "done thing". I sighed. Not yet, any a way

   Aristotle was glaring to me with open curiosity, and I realized I must have again fallen prey to my reflections. The door opened with ease. I motioned to it. 

  "Go on." Halfheartedly, he did.

  "Brodick?"

 There was something vaguely disturbing about the small face to meet me with a timid smile and, surprisingly, neither the extreme pallor nor the sharp touch of grayish cobalt eyes was it. The nursery had been paradise of my dreams for many a years, and then it had passed on to a most ardent Phineas, who still tended for it on occasion. It was wonderfully opulent, as everything at the manor, and its "points de la bonne bouche" were two magnificent pieces Father had b inherited as well, and that supposedly dated t two centuries before. These were the swing, meant to balance a tiring woman with the child, and, of course, the cradle. Both white, pure ivory, and heavily adored. Mother's beloved little minutiae.

  My one objection in concern to the chamber was its lack of proper lighting. Built to serve as sleeping quarter, this deprivation was indeed acceptable for early mornings or the day time should one wish to rest. But it was highly displeasing to a youngster of certain awareness, to be overly engulfed by the shadows when slightly older… the ensemble left place for imagination, and I could recall a few many nights spent eyeing the windows, thinking the wind would come steal my magical talent. It was never a matter of personal safety. I had always been told there was no greater disgrace to a Black than being oblivious to magic.   

   He was spread on the floor when I came in, and there was a bundle of old toys he'd not touched for years laying beside him. 

  "Yes." I paced forward, in those few places of light. "Don't you rather think you're a bit beyond age for this?"

  "Nay."

  I tested further: "Don't you plan to leave this place at any a time?"

  "Nay."

  "Why?"

  "Just leave." He shrugged, and then trailed a small toy golden snitch on the carpet. "He'll came take it from me soon, any a how." 

  "The babe?"

  "Aye."

  This was indeed something short to a shock, though it quite oughtn't have. I knew from own experience that it was tradition between Blacks that all hands be played in the open, and that the little said "secrets" of the age be only a matter of question and immediate answer. Ignorance was warmly greeted in children, since this granted the adults a certain sense of stability and belief that they held an undying superiority simply on account of that which they held back. It was for this exact reason why the Blacks were instructed in most fields at young ages. No one would ever hold an advantage over a Black, no matter the state of infancy. 

  So tutoring did come, on such matters. First the grand mystery of etiquette and the done thing, then the secret of Mother's womb, the Sorting details and then the tangles of the art of dueling. Copulation was something we did not quite converse, and on which we were to carefully introduce ourselves by own merit. All the knowledge we were passed on, however, followed in a steady rhythm. I recalled it absently. Yes, at his six years, Phineas would know a child was kept nine months in the womb of his mother – no explanations here on how it ever got there… but what more? Would he know about miscarriages? About the troubles of heirs?   

  Frowning, I clung to something more tangible. "Not aye – yes. There's not an Irish root in your body. Nor Scottish."  

  "Ay-Yes. The babe. I loathe it. It'll take my nursery. And my toys." The golden snitch all too suddenly encountered an invisible impediment on the mat and was thrown back with such force due to the impact, that it was launched well into the opposing wall, in spite of his hands' efforts to keep it down. Either that, or Phineas tossed it there.

  "You've no use for them any longer. You never fancied them, anyway."

  He rose his glare from the flooring, met and challenged my own, in a subtle scowl that I had learned to decipher as his mark of stubbornness. "I did."

  "You threw most of them out." I shrugged. "Moreover, the babe shan't have need for your toys. It'll be too little."

  His eyes seemed to light up, and there was a certain flicker of sarcasm and malice in his words when he next inquired: 

  "And for my nursery?"

  "The same."

  My answer appeared to have prevailed in startling him. Obviously, the thought of his being permitted to remain master of his play grounds had never occurred to him in probable terms. But he recovered quite easily from his puzzle, and he addressed me, in an almost silent mutter that held back nothing on the spite:

  "Well, it's not too little to slay Mama, is it?"

  I was surprised, and at the meantime amused. But the former won and with great ease; to view one's sibling as an intolerable and gruesome burden on one's shoulder or the family honor is one thing – to believe him a perfect murderer even when instilled in the mother's womb is another entirely. The worst was, however, that _I_ could hardly commence a thorough explanation on the most natural process of birth and its stages, since that would lead me to the very root of the trouble. Copulation. And while the last could be somehow elucidated, there was also the problem of explaining under what circumstances this was or was not the done thing, and why certain gentlemen and ladies endeavored in it, though none spoke of it publicly. I was quite assured he would view it as any other draining, fruitful and enjoyable activity – just like Quidditch- and then kindly demand it be instilled as a topic for dinner conversation. And that, for all it was worth, would simply not do. 

  I mentally cursed Father for not instructing his youngest in the field of love making as well.

  "Phineas… the youngling is not slaying Mother."

  It was all he was waiting for to spit out his full incense: "She bled today! I saw it! I was there. Aristotle was serving tea, and aunt Moira- "

  "Moira Lestrange is not our aunt." I marked, patiently. And she wasn't. A close amity of Mama's, and her spouse one of Father's. And Declan Lestrange one of my own. So maybe Phineas had been seeing too much of the Lestranges, around…

  "-she was telling mama how good it will be to finally have a worthy junior! And she said the babe would be so much better, and Mama said it will be so very loved, and…and…why won't the babe settle for that?" he eyed the wall with clear hatred, and then he bent to reach for the dawned snitch. The last had sheltered between the folds of the carpet, but Phineas' skillful little hands took grasp of it rapidly. And forcefully. He pushed on it, and tried to split it in twos, and when he couldn't he begun to toss it vigorously to the ground, then take it back and repeat this incessantly. I had no doubts he imprinted the treatment he felt would best suit the unborn sibling to the toy:  "Does he have to kill her?"

  "For the very last time, no one is slaying Mama."

  "Yes, it is!" Again, I became target of the venomous little darts his eyes launched mercilessly "Mama was all calm when Aristotle brought the tea, and then she jumped in her place, and there was a crimson stain on her gown, and then she started crying-" he threw the snitch back down, and, sickened by the gesture, I kneed at his side until, I on my knees, and he standing up, we were indeed face to face. But at least I had the snitch.  

  "And I know it was the babe hurting her inside, for Aristotle had served the tea well today, and he hadn't dropped it, like he normally does, so she wasn't upset on his account! Mama doesn't want the babe either, I tell you, it's killing her-" he choked on his words.

   "Calm yourself," I murmured, with a touch of exasperation. It was hardly to him, however, but myself. I had been under the impression I could handle this. It was growing fairly evident that all was not going by the rhythm of my intentions.

   "-it's killing her!"

   "Phineas!"

   " –it's killing her!" his voice had gained the sharp resolve of a steel blade, and there was little but an accusation bleeding his lips. His eyes were not as hesitant. 'And you're letting him kill her' they said.  

   "Stop it!"

   "IT'S KILLING HER!"

  I had to slap him. I did. The aftermath still hurt, however. The look in his eyes, as he clutched both hands on his newly reddened cheek, was crushing. There was so many accusations in one little glare, that I thought I would soon start trembling, were I to gaze upon him any longer. I rose and turned from him. I knew he would not hold me responsible – he was young, true, but he also held the family spirit, and a certain tendency towards a fast and accurate understanding of most things, so I suspected he realized he held as much fault in the occurrence as I. More so, if I dared myself the assessment. But as I heard the negligent rub of robes onto skin, and then something close to a deep inhaling, I knew he was valiantly fighting to keep back tears.

   Phineas never cried with such great theatrical effects as most children his age did – he never accompanied each weep with sobs of studied length and intensity, and he never took on a puffy expression. He never pouted, either. No, Phineas cried just as he – and us all – did everything, with the Black dignity and the Black composure.

   I realized he was partly ashamed for his exposure, the moments before, and I wanted to tell him that letting emotions get the best of him in such situations was acceptable and that he shouldn't mourn the momentary loss of his sense; but, somehow, I felt this would only serve in heartening him to his tears further, on account that my recognition of it as a loss of sense meant it had held indubitable gravity. So I let him cry for all it was worth.

    And I only returned to face him when, on a simple, low whisper, he said:

   "Darius doesn't care for the babe either. He thinks it's a monster. " This drew my attention.

   "Darius?" I mouthed, unable to hide a certain sense of curiosity mixed with exasperation.

   "Yes." He added quickly "But don't worry. He fancies you."

  Somehow, finding myself in Darius' graces failed to compliment me as much as Phineas' broad smile noted it should have. Nearing his former swing, I made to sit. The seat rocked me forward in an indolent movement. Phineas regarded me inquisitively.

    Of course. Darius. How stupid of me.

 I had always known of my sibling's little oddities and, as expected of a wiser elder brother, I had learnt to overcome the obstacles they invariably constituted. As most of us, in times of great despair, Phineas sought to retreat within a realm of his own. This pursuit, however, did not resume solely to crises and them alone. Throughout time, a series of imaginary amities – he claimed them demons he could summon at will- had found him worthy of their company, and had also chosen to mark their presence by some pestering demeanor that only took place in sheer solitude. Save for dear Phineas. So it was that vases of great valor were broken and these demons were blamed. Toys were ruined, and rugs were stained, and of course dear Phines had someone to pass the guilt onto. Declan Lestrange had claimed to have had such a select entourage in his early youth as well. He had also mentioned his Father's manner of dealing with them had been by calling the reprimands on him, given how "one is responsible for the deeds of one's guests." And the "demons" were presumed guests.

  Would that they left Phineas. After a while, I 'd universally decreed them as my brother's manner of distancing himself and the "done thing" from the more vile part of his persona – by giving the last a supposed "life" of its own. I had to think of it this way. I had long been acquainted with a few inner rumors of hereditary insanity circling our bloodline, and for the sake of the Black declared supremacy over any other lineage, I was to discard them subtly. Which did not mean they did not prevail in startling me horribly. Merely that I attempted to ignore them.    

  So great was my absence of mind that it took me a moment for me to realize Phineas was saying something:

   "I'll have Darius kill the babe before it murders Mama!" 

This disturbed me. Inner competition, I could comprehend. It was merely the enormous age gap and Phineas being such an adorable little twit that had kept it from developing in any of our intercourses, but I knew it to be a common and quite encouraged ordeal between siblings. So, normally, a certain struggle for our parents' affections was to be expected. And a degree of dislike.

   But the sheer hatred Phineas exhibited was discouraging indeed. I would have narrowed it on shock – but something, a sharp flicker of awareness in his eyes, warned that to not give this claim the gravity it deserved was to commit quite the error.

    "I'll have none of that. How dare you?" He'd never heard me yell at him. Never seen me truly angered. So he was scared, now, and he showed his fright by backing away slightly.

    "How dare you behave so childishly when Mother is as she is? How dare you after all that's happened?" I was taking my anger on him, and that was not good at all. His lips began to tremble. I shouted further "How ruddy dare you?"

   "I-I… " he sobbed. Dignity and a certain sense of indignation alone kept him from crying. "I just hate him! He's killing her!" 

  There he was again. I couldn't take another round of this. He noticed his repetition – he was a smart chap, for all it was worth, he was my brother, after all – and he lowered his head. When he raised it again, he was scowling.

   "And I hate you for not hating him!" Merlin save me from wearisome six-year olds.

   I sighed "Phineas, this is not what Mother needs right now.  And she – as I – as Father – will have none of this. The child is an heir, just as he is a son. And a sibling to you. And you'll love him." I decreed, calmly, with a firmness I doubted he could mistake. "Even if I have to hex the love out of you."

   I couldn't let him see how much a hold his words had on me. I couldn't let him know how much I wished to be the one voicing them. So I did the one thing I could do.

   I left.   

     "Brodick, old boy!" 

  I had expected a great many things and an equal number of persons to adjoin, soon after. But Declan Lestrance, his merry face and generous smile so very unfitting to the ominous circumstances, did not come as part of this merry category. I had been taking a stroll through the gardens – a silly little habit, as one can guess, but with remarkable results in calming my senses – and the overwhelming dusk had managed to bathe on my fury and probe to its very cores. Introspection was not something that I commonly tolerated, and, for the past few good minutes, I had come to realize it may have just been a worthy pursuit. I had obtained, after a few less jovial instants, to be at peace with myself, and again logic had drawn the line, and I had had to simply lower my head and nod whilst confronted to a perilous prospect. 

  I was hardly in control of the situation, and this was something I could not afford, and there were great many causes for this unfortunate situation with strong roots in my own behavior. 

 My first capital error had been, of course, never pondering the event. It was true that neither Mother nor Father had made any note as to how they would ever desire another spawn, let alone actually share an assessment into ever undergoing the carnal labor that was reproduction. But, on a rational basis, this was an alternative that should never have escaped me, and for which I should have been prepared. Fact of the matter was, I had been caught off guard. 

  Secondly, Phineas and I should never have had that little conflict. At the time, I had been greatly distressed by my infuriating incapacity of doing anything concerning the entire situation. Phineas himself had been most startled by what he had witnessed ; his own mother in pains and bleeding, all on account of a sibling he certainly could not bring himself to even accept, let alone cherish. My approach to him had also lacked in the affectionate quality he had most likely awaited and deserved, and I had thrown in my fury as much as his own. So I had failed in diplomatic efforts, as well.           

   Two grand disappointments, so very disconcerting. I couldn't dishearten. I was the Black heir. I was to excel. I had to.   

   It was no wonder, therefore, that I was rightfully surprised when, directing his tool in an elaborate descent, Declan Lestrange had come by my side. Reflexively, my wand snapped up as little but darken extension of my hand, jerked towards his chest. I lowered it when he greeted me with his far too luminous smile, dropping his broom to the ground. I framed the last in a subtle frown. The sight of brooms always had the gift of reminding me of my complete futility in the domain – the only mean by which I could ever get a broom in the air was to levitate it there.    

 "Awful bit on your mother, what can one say?" he said, throwing an arm over my shoulders. We began pacing forward. "My own hag went through a bit of a weep, but, well, she always does that, so, no worry. Listen, I've been wandering-"

  Oh, how I knew what was to follow! And while in normal conditions, his company would have done me good – and even now I pondered it for a moment, since he might have somewhat soothed me in such time- I feared it would be unwise to sample the Black hospitability, given how mother was so unwell. I raised my hands, palms kept outwards, and calmly set to back away:

      "Declan, I'm no disposition for receiving."

     "-Brodick!" His face was the mask of sheer indignation. This came as  quite comical, since his face would suit fairly any expression but that. He was immensely tall – and I spoke from the perspective of one estimated as of more than impressive height myself – and equally thin, but his most marking trait was the mane of burgundy hair, wildly clutched in a discrediting tail. His eyes, a bizarre cobalt, seemed to contain an eternal flicker of laugh in them, which made it impossible for him to portray the required gravity at any a time.   

  "How crude do you think me? In no way would I ever seek to impose under such dreadful circumstances, and-"

  "Not even for one night." I shook my head, offering a sad smile. Immediately, puzzle dawned upon him, and he even gasped: 

     "Oh, come on, Brodick, have a black little heart!" I bravely attempted to make no note of the pun. "Had myself an awful row with Father…"

     This was no surprise. "You always do. Why not go to Hasek's? I'm sure he'll love to have you. He's not particularly in speaking terms with his own, these days."   

  Of course Laurentius Hasek would share his misfortune, but, then again, few were those who could manage a decent conversation with good old Hasek sans being overrun by his abundant sarcasm. But this was hardly the issue due to which his relations to his parents had succumbed to a more morbid nature, as of late. A mastery in Potions was view as a most academic and highly intellectual achievement, true. But, much like Alchemy, it had no true future in view of a profession. Little if any money was made, and while this may have been no great dilemma for Father and I, as heirs to a formidable fortune and with no care in the ruddy world, the same could not be told of the less ostentatious Hasek lineage. Healers, most of them, or in trades, they couldn't quite fully comprehend Laurentius' genius in a field with which they had never bothered. 

  So they damned his choice. And so he revolted. Such a _wonderful_ little family. A pity he, unlike Declan, did not reside in Hampshire, or at least in the close vicinity. Not too keen on the broom either, he couldn't come over for visits and escape his dreaded condition all too often.     

     "Really now, Brodick, a simple no would have done the trick, no need to sentence me to certain death or the likes! Dear Gods, the place he has is downright horrible! None of the plants he holds were meant for the purposes he offers them, I'll tell you that much! Hell, he'd even make Salazar twist in his grave in hearing what he's got in there- no way – no how."

   I smiled uneasily: "Well, then, fair fortune in returning amidst your Father's favors by the end of the night."

    "Meh…I suppose I could kick the elves out for a night… Bloody things, these ones! And kinky, as well!" I had no intention in finding out just how he'd run over that particular piece of intelligence.

    "That bad, was it?"

    "Mhmmm…."…" His hand rushed over his forehead, setting aside the loose hairs, only succeeding in making it look messier than before. Privately, I thanked the new fashions that accepted short haircuts, as my own.

    "Whatever on?"

    "Oh, you know…his wretched little studies. Asked of him to take me to London these days, to Diagon Alley, to pick up a new broom.  It takes no Diviner to tell what he said."

    "No." He nodded.

    "Precisely. And it's not like I ask him too much and on too many occasions…so maybe he gets me out of some tight spots at times, but, honestly, he's not presented me that new collection of robes I demanded either!" this brought a new smile on my face "He's being so insufferable, and Aidan" exasperation was written all over his face at the mention of his brother "is being such a git as always – and I just wanted my damned broom! Is that too much to ask for?"

    "Hmmm? No. Of course not. What reason did he invoke?" 

    "Oh…you know…nonsense…old news…something of a new reunion…but he could have found himself the time!"

    My attention was actually well requested, for a change: "Indeed. Another of _their_ reunions?"

    'Yes. He said it was serious. He always says that." He shrugged "Though I expect there might be some truth to it now. The entire Order of Change is coming together. It's about that new treaty presented to the Ministry. This Grindewald seems to mean what he says." Trust Declan Lestrange to belittle one of the greatest Alchemists of all times to a mere "this Grindelwald".  

   "On imbuing magical abilities to the human entity?" Now it was my turn to scowl broadly "Now _that_ is nonsense, Declan." Again, he only shrugged.

   "The Ministry doesn't seem to think so. They oppose it constantly, of course." Of course. We'd reached the manor by now, and good Grimmauld was looking its finest from the shadows. With Declan's earlier innuendo, before, I couldn't quite invite him for dinner without bringing his company for the rest of the eve on, and I couldn't do this to Mother, and Phineas – Declan had always had a certain knack for teasing Phineas, and he didn't need that now, and-

  I drew in. Far too many issues I would have normally deemed utterly insignificant now prevailed in birthing sheer chaos in my normally organized mind. All too suddenly, the rumors of insanity having lingered in our blood lineage swept me by, and I found this illogical enough – I wasn't mad, for Merlin's sake- as to do the sole right thing. I drew the line.

  Rapidly, and to his evident dissatisfaction, even though he had common sense enough as to not word upon it, I turned Declan and myself towards where his broom laid still abandoned. We paced yet again.   

   "Grindewald is mad. Then again, he is quite young," I commented, attempting to revive our conversation.

   "Aye." This snapped wording unwillingly brought Phineas to mind. "But I bet he has a new broom!" His hearty laughter drew in my own, and we both kept on this merry attitude. This had to be Declan's finest quality – not everyone could be so light, so dynamic, so openly alive in spite of all etiquette demanded. Mayhap, in all his apparent negligence, Declan was the best such player of us all. He could keep to the rules, yet remain himself. 

  Would that I could share this sort of view on all circumstances. Alas, however, I had earlier decided jealousy was not the done thing so, in order to avoid all occasions that could aid in its apparition, I gave this particular affair no more thought.

  Let Delcan be as he wished to be. I was Brodick Black, and heir to the noble house of Black, and therefore our responsibilities were different entirely. 

   "I regret being unable to give you a hand, Declan. But things at the Manor are-"

   "-in quite the muddle. Yes, I know. 'twas stupid of me to even ask it of you." He eyed the ground, for a moment, though at no time ceased walking. It was a habit of his, to avoid direct eye contact whenever admitting own errors was concerned. He seemed to think it a greater burden for his wild spirit if the humiliation of an acknowledged "audience" was added. "How…how are you dealing with the whole of it?"

   "You know…a new brother…honestly, after that twit of a second of yours, one would think your old man would have understood reproduction was an effort only once worth the time…"

   I smiled. "Phineas isn't that bad, Declan." 

   "He's not a thing like you!" He remarked rather loudly, shooting me a slightly questioning glance.

   "Mayhap that's for the best." I shrugged.

   "And you're not in the least insulted by this new heir?"

   Bewilderment overwhelmed me, and I was inattentive enough as to express it: "Insulted?"

   "Well, it's not quite like they told you beforehand."

   "I wasn't quite yearning for a report on all their intimate intercourses either." We both smiled, he more knowingly then I. It was to my understanding that he had made such a request to his father, after the birth of his own junior brother Aidan, a much too talkative fiend that I secretly thought of as holding great chances at growing a sheer idiot.   

  Declan caught on with ease:  "Oh, but can you picture it? Your dear old Father and mum rutting a tad-" The imagery was devastating. I drew in.

   "-and then, your old man stopping in between to write a few lines for his dear eldest! Imagine if they ever ran out of ink! Whatever would they use?"

   "Declan…" I stopped to eye him with feigned gravity. "You frighten me."

   "Least I can do for Hogwarts' newest prefect!" He accompanied this with a surprisingly elegant reverence. This succeeded in reminding me of yet another probable failure. True, the Hogwarts owls had not come to deliver the book list – and with them the official welcoming within the prefect ranks that was normally there included- but I was far too great a cynic at the time to think it was still a valid possibility: 

   "So…off to fend down Laurentius' plants?"

   "Heavens, no! I've a few sickles to spare…you got a few yourself?" I immediately threw a hand in the one pocket of my velvetish cloak, and obliged in searching whatever sickles or galleons I might have had on. I never normally went anywhere sans proper a little monetary support, so this wasn't likely to prove a fruitless quest. He continued:

  "I'm thinking that if I go and get obnoxiously drunk at some inn, they'll pity on me and let me sleep on the counter."

  I tossed him the money, and he received it with a smile, only to then mount swiftly on his clever little broom and fly off. 

 Dear old Declan. Given the number of times in which he and his father argued, one would think he would have taken the time to build himself an extra entrance…

  It was abominably dark when I managed to enter the manor, much to the dismay of Rhyson, who I dearly suspected of having locked all entrances firmly, most likely as what she deemed a suiting reprimand for having missed on dinner. Truthfully, after Declan's disappearance, all the mirth to accompany him seemed to have dissolved, and I found myself distracted enough so to lengthen my stroll. I regretted not having urged him to linger, a few moments, especially when I was forced to kick the door open and mask all noise through a well-planted "Silencio".

   Damned Rhosyn. She should have known an Alohomora's performance against the wretched holds Father had installed was reduced to a sheer nullity. I had half the mind to revive the memory of such a lesson through a nice hexing at breakfast – rather, before it. The Black Code of Honor dictated all complaints in view of the personnel and the according reprimand be dealt before the commencement of any more imperious activities. And, as greatly as this may have shocked Mother, liaisons to a house elf were most certainly beneath the most important meal of the day, in my list of priorities.  

    Sweeping through the corridor, I made no effort to cast a benevolent "Lumos". It was far too demanding of me, at the time, and I also risked making my presence far too known. Mother, I knew, was in her chambers, resting. Phineas was most likely asleep, or feigning such a ordeal, as was his custom when he wished for his "conversations" with his "friends" to not suffer interruption. And I could always count on Father to have disapparated at the Ministry or the Order of Change's current favored location of reunion. 

  So I was, come to think of it, rather alone. 

  And so was one little fire whiskey bottle I knew Father kept in his drawers in the receiving room. I could use a drink, as much I knew, so reason was quickly abandoned when faced to the promise of such sweet oblivion. 

  Calmly, I paced to the quarter. Dusk greeted me here as well, save for the more dim figures reflected in what I knew to be a formidable piece of the fifteenth century – an immense mirror, worthy of any a ball room, that also engulfed one of the main walls. 

  But this was not my objective. Somewhere, in night's bliss, there was a fire whiskey bottle. And if it wasn't calling for me, I certainly was calling for it. 

  It was then that I did call on my little magic, and all too soon the lively sparkles were born at hand of the elegant mahogany wand. Slowly, I turned to face the cabinet – and immediately, I froze in my place.

   There were markings on the grand mirror, and ones no one could truly mistake. I could not keep back a gasp, it was utterly impossible. Blood still dripped from where one had carelessly encrypted words that poisoned my thoughts as I attempted to take them into consideration. I paced back, a tad, dropped my wand. It made no difference. The words hung still in my mind. 

     " The …abomination…shall …not…know…life…" 


	2. Ottaviano Trelawney: Abrasax

    Ottaviano Trelawney, 1859  

  Ulrich Grindelwald is mad. 

 It was a far easier fact to discard when it was just word in the receiving halls – "Oh, Grindelwald, the old boy? Nice potential, but slightly dotty, that one!" – word during committees – "Merlin, has he no sense? We can't do that, he's round the bend!- word in taverns, lost in the net of a voluptuous night – "He doesn't know what he's asking, he's off in the head!"…

   Whispers, cries, shouts…those, one could fend off with remarkable ease. It was hardly as if they had a life of their own. Hardly as if they would always be there. But some things – some things just never faded… And I regretted having this particular piece of intelligence demonstrated and vehemently confirmed. I regretted ever laying eyes upon him. I still do. Blimey, I still do. 

                                                                                                     ~~~~~~~~

  The voice was warm and it was tranquil. Cling to the voice.

"What do you see…?"

  Why did it ask? Cold. It was cold everywhere. And all around was mist…gray. Not the black of the dead, or the white of the pure. Why did the white taint the black? Why was there gray everywhere?   

"I see nothing. "

   But I did. And I heard the whisper. Bitter, bitter whisper. Whisper that came from the mists. From the demon in the shadows.

  _The nothingness within…_

"Sssshh….distance yourself from the mists." Again the voice. Listen to the voice. Heed not the whisper. Listen to the voice… "Do not succumb to them. Redirect your thoughts. There is more beyond. Do you see it?"

  I didn't. I saw nothing. I was nothing. Nothing but the mists, for I too was the mist, and all around there was gray. Only gray. Gray, gray, gray, velvety, everywhere…and then…striping. Crimson serpent. 

"Only…only the mist…and…and…fire!" Serpents writhing, seeking their pray. Where was it? Gold and crimson, watching…waiting… "Fire…don't- don't go into the fire!" 

    Lord of the blazes…awaken… 

  No…no more of the whisper! No more of the gray! No more of the serpents! Couldn't stand it. Must let go – cold, why was everything so cold, and the whisper, fire…

 "Mustn't…mustn't…command thee…fire!"  Serpents. Serpents nearing.

  And then the dark.

                                                                                                     ~~~~~~~~

  "…there is blood within you, awaken! Ottaviano, awaken."

  They called my name. Sentience had returned quite abruptly. It normally did. It took a bit more for recognition to settle in. Where was I, again? I'd most likely known before, but I didn't now. A few glances to each side - ah, yes. The auditory. 

   I tried to smile. Couldn't. Was still damnably cold. Even shivered a few times. They took pity on me soon after – wrapped me in something. I would have most likely taken to patting the texture, but my hands felt numb, as did the rest of my body. Couldn't move. Too cold.

   "Ottaviano, this isn't the first time you induce the Sight."

  No. No, it wasn't. I tried to raise my eyes, tried to vanquish the grey. It reigned over my senses; I could only see in a blur. Even so, Scaliger's features were easily discernible. The man's moustache was a treat for every eager jester's eye and hardly one to be mistakable. Scaliger, my mentor.

  The I must have been in the auditory room. It came to me mere seconds after that I'd already reasoned that. Per Dio…All I could think off was the cold.

   I made an effort to look around. The auditory was a grand hall indeed – mayhap the greatest of the edifice, but then again, the Order of Diviners had always taken pride in its opulent constructions. The little water pool in the center was hardly serene. Little drops of scarlet had been scattered onto the waves; rose petals we kept in small bowls in each corner of the room. Light greeted me with the rich quality it could offer through the many windows high above, in the ceiling, or on the walls. The tapestry smiled in the form of thousands of roses. I didn't know how they'd enchanted it to linger so, hundreds of years ago. The Order of Diviners was old, with rules of the Old and the last's traditions. It took few disciples, and fewer members. The training lengthened far more than I normally cared to attend to. More than I had the patience to. Five years.     

   Scaliger's voice brought me back to the present. And to the cold.

  "And this is also not the first time that I tell you that you are too young to attempt full Sight." Same old lecture, same old chant. Somehow, my expression must have spoken of something of the sort, since he renounced the rest of it. "And that I will no longer provide assistance to you."

   This, however, was a novelty. And a worrisome one, at that. I wasn't a fool. I knew I couldn't handle the Sight without help, as futile as it would initially seem. The trance wasn't something to be toyed with. There were two brands of Sight formally acknowledged and these were memento and Tempora. The former dealt with the Sight caused by outside stimuli – this was violent, almost maddening, and its mere apparition was great reason for startle. Visions of no control were normally associated with a great peril in the times to come. For the latter, as one could easily imagine, the Seer embarked on a preparation of the psyche for many hours or, at times, even days, through a diet of potions and meditations that encouraged the coming of the Sight. Since it was hardly a natural phenomenon and since the Seer requested the favors of the Graces to reach fortune and prepared himself accordingly, this had received the title of induced Sight.

   One needed a guide, in the initial steps. Even the ruddy questions were vital, and they needed to be asked. The answers needed recording and comprehension. Most of all, however, the presence of a fully trained Seer was crucial should anything go invariably wrong. It sometimes did. One would be engulfed by the cold, by the loss of emotion. Like being suspended in the air, flying with no true stimulus. Being there but not quite so. Or, as we put it, _losing oneself in the mists, in the realm of the Sight, Abrasax_.  

   The _mists_, we were told during the seminars we attended under the careful watch of the Order of the Divine Arts, were an entirely different plane, between the corpusculo and sensoria. Between body and spirit. Merely a border, so to put it, from which one with the talent would "take a peek" into the ways of Fortune and Chaos. 

   And the demon that murmured the outcome. It was demon to me, at least, though most of those in their fourth year of training – only then were we truly permitted to facedly call on the Sight - named it the wind, while others said it was an angel. Some even claimed the "messages" were conveyed through the shadows of their deceased loved ones. Some said they were delivered by the specter of their very future selves.

   I couldn't say more on the account, though it was as it ought be for me – a demon. There was nothing warm in the whispers, like in the normal definition of an angel. Nothing affectionate in it, though the uttering was paradoxically intimate, so not a loved one. And I privately thought that, whatever the chances, I would grow into a man who would never hesitate in showing his face, and that I would step away from the mists and into full inner visions. So not a specter.

   And the religious part of me demanded some sort of satisfaction. Again, the theory of the black and white. I was believed a radical, for entrusting in that brand of reasoning, but no matter. If it was not an angel, and therefore of the white, then it must have been black, and, implicitly, a demon. Somehow, it was only fitting.

  "What did I say?" My inquiry seemed to earn the great accomplishment of startling Scaliger. Apparently, the ominous silence had better suited his tastes. I circled my arms over the cape. Satin. Now I could feel it. 

   "The mists," he answered, calmly. He'd neared the northern wall and now leaned against it. He aimed to sport an air of calm, in order to stimulate my own, but his tension was far too evident for him to achieve such. Seers weren't precisely known for their poise. The latter had been much reason for our exile, in the old days. The absence of a well-planted composure, even as a consequence of circumstances we could not control, was not to be tolerated. So, indeed, we were viewed as rather the eccentrics, with our peculiar tastes and ardent whims. 

  But his answer provoked a certain fury. "Nothing else?" This couldn't be. I was better than that. I could see beyond the mists… there had to have been more.

   He nodded. "There was more. Fire."

  Fire…I closed my eyes, and I took the image of the nice rose tapestries with me in the darkness. Reconstructing the Sight was an unbelievably demanding process. Somehow, the memory dismissed the information on account of the pain. So much emotion generated to the outside – so great the void kept to the inside… Sometimes, it was better to simply forget. The organism chose not to remember, as if a barrier separated the two periods of sentience, and there was no passing.

   But I wanted to know more. I had to…had to…what had happened? What had I seen? What had I- the wall was there. I had to rely on Scaliger, and my desperate glance most likely conveyed as much, for he offered me an apologetic smile:

  "I can't help you with that, Ottaviano."       

  _Can't you truly,_ I wanted to voice, but I didn't. 

    "No one can," he noted patiently, as if he possessed the rare gift of Legilimency. Somehow, it would not have surprised me – though with the new edict of the British Wizardry Regulation, Legilimency was an Art no longer to be embraced. It didn't sit well with the authorities that one wizard or witch be given the possibility of intruding in matters of the highest security with just the snap of a finger – or, rather, thought- in the mind of one less gifted in defense in this area. Which hardly meant Fabrice Scaliger would encounter any troubles in practicing his chosen field silently. After all, his status was far above all claims or doubts. Or at least, it gave that impression.

   Privately, I wondered just how much of his students' minds Scaliger would prefer to inspect. And how much of this knowledge he would be willing to mention…  

  Warmth descended onto my shoulders as his fingers spread tightly on each side. 

  "But I meant what I said, Ottaviano." Gray challenged gray in one contemplative stare. It was he who spoke again, in the end. "I will no longer take any part in this. You are one of my best – no, the best student I have ever had, the best I have trained." 

  I nodded. This was hardly news, but his admittance did touch a cord.

 Mentors were only those elder Seers who could no longer as actively participate in the gatherings of the Diviners, since their visions were hardly as clear as they had once been. It was custom amidst the Order that one of the last take a group of at most three students for instruction – commonly, the mentor grew as little but an adoptive father. Truthfully, I knew not how this could have ever differed. Eighteen year old, or newly-come of age, all startled, all fearing their gift and told to cling to it. How could they not choose to regard the one who provided them with knowledge, with some sort of safety, of control, as anything but a close tie? Closer still, perhaps, than even blood.

   I had grown close to Scaliger. This couldn't be denied – and his words grew within me a certain sense of elation.

  "But," he more sighed the words than uttered them "there is a time and place for everything. And this isn't your time for the Sight." He shook his head. "This isn't it."

  The satin curved delicately onto my skin, and I hungered for its softness, once more. I closed my eyes, but opened them rapidly, in less than an instant. Color was warmth. Darkness was cold. And I felt so dead within it.

   "I understand why you say all that you do. I can see your reasoning. But…" My eyes turned to the roses. So beautiful…why was beauty so fragile? Why could beauty be so easily broken, scattered? I thought we Seers were beautiful too, in our own wicked way, but this was hardly how we were ever viewed by an outsider's eye. Scavengers, wraiths, all horribly depraved and ever such bad influences. There wasn't a plague or war to have not been, at one point or the other, said to have been brought on by Seers. Wherever we went, disaster inevitably pursued. Or so was the saying.                  

 Scaliger snapped back towards me: "You would call on the Sight without a mentor?"

   "If the circumstances impose it..." I shrugged. There was hardly any point in feigning otherwise. If it was true, and he was no stranger to Legilimency, then my decision would be as intimate intelligence to him as it was to me. And even if not, he knew what motivated me. He knew how I felt.

   "You would," he decreed softly, with maybe just a touch of disappointment that died in the unforgiving petals of painted roses.  

   "I would. With or without you." He measured me as if he'd seen me then and there for the first time. And the coldness in his eyes did not fade, did not waver. I didn't tremble under it – or mayhap I did?- but I could feel it, and my imploring tone said as much: "But I'm being fair, master. I'm giving notice."

   "Then allow me to be as _fair_ as you in this matter. Allow _me_ to give notice," he whispered, bitterly. I knew  "Induce the Sight once again before your fourth year, and I will conceal you no longer. You will not have my protection for another minute. And mark my words, Ottaviano- they _will_ throw you out of the Order. You have a magnificent gift and I love you with all my heart." An elegant finger traced delicately over his wand. Rather bewildered, I vaguely noticed I'd not seen him draw it out. "But I will not have your death upon me. I will not lose you to the mists, and you are a selfish fool to think I ever would."

   I didn't answer, didn't even utter a word as he paced off silently. I couldn't. Everything was still too ruddy cold.

~~~~~~~~   

   Lust was intolerable, in its essence. It constantly reminded one of the weaknesses of the spirit, first, then disgraced the being by a materialization in the trivial realm of carnality. I ached for satisfaction, of some sort, any sort. Craved for a certainty to be assured that I was still alive – the cold, the mist, everything, they drew one in almost to a point of tragedy.

  Physical endowments were something of a well-adored talent of Seers. We required these attributes for when these precise ardencies neared us; normally, we then sought the desired union and were done with it. There was no point in pretense; it was certainly an animal impulse, and emotions were not as much involved, as was the prospect of a release from the spiritual ties. We wanted to feel the flesh, the warmth, the passion. Wanted to feel the now and then, the moment. After all, it was well-known that a Seer's life was short lived.

  I was experiencing this very yearning just after Scaliger made his little escape, and I was quite pleased by it. We'd learnt in our theory classes that any sort of Sight was then accompanied by this unfortunate sense, so it meant my little undergoing had been very much a success. I made to smile, then my lips tied shortly on a thin layer. Spitting down, I could see little rose petals, and this amused me fairly.

   Scarlet, like the color of passion. 

   Of course, I told myself, this was worst still for Seers of Second Sight, who could not meditate and Induce their Sight, but depended solely on the few times in which the Sight sought them – the memento. The subsequent physical demands after that were, to my knowledge, startling, at the very least.

   But I had to keep my composure, here and now. Scaliger's words had offended and saddened me at the same time, and I didn't care to linger, risking some sort of outburst, given my current emotional vulnerability. I didn't want to say anything I might later regret, just as I didn't want nor need any more of the Diviners. I was sickened by it, by everything, and I couldn't stand the thought of never being able to Induce for two years now, when I was perfectly able to do so already, and everything around reminded me of that, and-

   I had to get out. Had to go.

  And I knew just where. I could always pay dear Father a visit – he resided in wizarding London, which wasn't far in the least. One could fly there casually. I could do it. It would mean leaving, for a moment. Just a bit. I had to do it.

  Had to try to keep back. Had to forget everything.

   Including the anger, the lust, and all the bickering emotion.

_  And the cold...  _

                                                                                               ~~~~~~~~

  Wizard London echoed its Muggle equivalent in being a sheer and utter chaos. Barely avoiding a few puddles, I managed to bring myself towards the edifice of choice, again wondering at how the devil the Trelawney heirs expected their name be attributed to fair taste, when the outlook of their very homes was the image of obscurity.

 Eyeing the manor for yet a second time, I was forced to give it what little credit it deserved, and that it was at least undeniably clean. I couldn't understand the English affinity for strings of weed that hung bravely on the wallings – this was a tendency I had not seen as all that widely spread in Venice, and for that, if nothing else, I was greatly indebted to the Italians. 

  After taking the time to collect my poise and see to the suitability of the attire – the robes had wrinkled greatly, as per habit- I knocked a few times and was not all that surprised at it being answered immediately. 

  "Yes?" said a woman in her mid thirties, bearing a look of unmistakable revulsion on her face. I knew her to be the caretaker of the Trelawney estate, Iris Merrick, she who governed over the house elves and saw to it that everything was in order for any guest who might consider dropping by. This was again something I couldn't entirely understand. In Italy, house elves were free and were placed on equal foot with the wizardry ilk. Here, they were slaves. I couldn't think of them as such, though one too many people did, and doing otherwise was to point to a belittling social standing. And I couldn't do that. But I didn't think of them as my inferiors either…

  Iris Merrick's irritated glance met mine, for a moment. I sneered inwardly. With such a "warm" welcome, no wonder the place was quite abandoned. 

"Good day to you, " she added.

  "And you."

  "Do come in, I'll send for some Earl Grey…" She opened the door widely, and I began to think of a few excuses as to how I could escape her company. If Father wasn't in, this was invariably what awaited me. And I had had my share of encounters with Merrick so to know her presence to be greatly undesirable. 

  "No, please, don't bother, I-"

  "Is that Ottaviano I hear?"

 With a nice orchestra of several sighs on Merrick's behalf, we both turned to face the doorway, as a few more random notes and octaves reached us in a melodious tonality. I acknowledged the female quite instantly – Morianna Trelawney, my cousin on my father's side, and one of the most eccentric and at the same time rottenly spoiled maidens of the wizardry world. In a fury of burgundy velvet, she who had spawned the inquiry dashed through the corridors.

  "No, milady–" there was little but despair in fair Iris Merrick's denial, but it was far too late, since the girl had already made her way to the doorway. "we ought to-"

   Morianna – for it was indeed she- gave the other her best impression of a look of sheer menace. Naturally, the result was most likely far beneath her expectations, since Merrick didn't see fit to as much as blink, let alone throw herself at her young mistress' feet and beg leniency.  

  "Oh, don't you lie to me, you silly old hag – you'll remember, I'm a Seer! I can see through your mind! Off you go now, off" 

 Iris Merrick shot her a tired glance.  "I…By your leave, Master, Mistress" she said, with a brief nod to both. She was out in the moments to follow. I would normally have felt quite pained by Morianna's demeanor, and would have sought to reprimand the last accordingly – but I'd learned my share on aristocratic girls, and the first lesson was invariably how you could never change them as much as they could you.

  I merely shrugged and decided to pick on something that she couldn't counter.

  "A Seer cannot read thoughts. That's a Legilimens," I noted calmly. I kept back any further comments on how she was hardly acceptable for the title of Seer either. She'd not absolved Hogwarts, naturally, as aristocracy was not in the habit of sending their heiresses to study amongst the populace; therefore, she'd been educated at home. She'd provided me with delightful tales of the little London adventures, after we'd been acquainted, when I'd been embraced by the family as an eleven year-old, and when I required a rapport of most the Trelawney affairs. Morianna seemed to find being an illegitimate spawn as the ultimate thrill, and she rather admired my status than resented it. Either that, or she was extremely well bred in pretense, which was something not all that improbable, since I could see Celia Horton Trelawney as quite a fine educator in the field. 

   Young Morianna didn't bear that keen a resemblance to her, in spite of all this. She was remarkably light and, at times, infuriatingly passionate about even the smallest of things. Her newest fit had been becoming a Seer, and this caprice had only been given reason to increase once she'd proven a particular talent towards it. Not sufficient as to actually earn her a place between the ranks of the students of the Order of Diviners, but still well above average.

  I'd feared that my acceptance to it, under these circumstances, would culminate in the distancing of our liaisons, but she'd only received me with a courteous smile, just after word of my joining had come about, and it was her enthusiasm that overrode Sebastian Trelawney's in hearing his son would take such curious paths. She had asked for small favors, however, and one of them, I was currently reminded, had been to make her a replica of the onyx and silver ring that we were handed as soon as we swore allegiance to the Order. 

   Even now, the darken glistens brought to mind the ancient myths and theories of the power of the stone when born by a Seer, as it flickered playfully upon her hand. She smiled as both our eyes fell upon it  

  "Oh, yes, well, she'd know whether I took Legilimency training or not, and she's so terribly thick in what Seers are concerned, so don't you spoil my fun, Ottaviano Trelawney!"

  I felt forced to once again admire her talent for putting a thousand and one clauses in one smooth sentence. True, true, so very true – I'd found that Iris Merrick differed greatly from other maids or caretakers of keeps, and I had no doubt as to that she would, indeed, recognize the pattern, should one oblige in lessons of Legilimency. She'd attended Hogwarts and even taken a mastery in Charms, so she wasn't dense, like most of those to normally accept the position she valiantly occupied in the Trelawney household, for a most discouraging pay.  

  She never complained, however, though she did take to quite a nasty behavior towards "silly geese" such as cousin Morianna, who commonly tested her patience and good sense. It was to my understanding that the elder woman was of quite intriguing upbringing, and that, for some reason beyond my knowledge, her brother – a Healer, lest I was mistaken- had exiled her from the family. This abrupt decision had, naturally, attracted the grand question of how exactly she would make her living, from then on. The response to that seemed to have been quick assignment to Trelawney Manor, where she officially held the part of caretaker to the household. I rather thought she had other attributions as well, myself, and I was quite willing to wager a most voluptuous sum in that they concerned her and Father's sleeping arrangements… 

  Wrapping all fingers in a clutch surprisingly forceful for someone as presumably delicate as she, dear cousin dragged me through the corridors.

  "Heh. She is giving you trouble, I take it?"

  Morianna greeted me with a look that was probably meant to convey her exasperation at the caretaker's conduct.

  "Indeed. You cannot imagine how ghastly she is to me! And she's even more horrid when uncle is here – by the way, Uncle Sebastian isn't in now-, and-" the words died on her lips, as her great blue eyes widened further, and she looked at me as if she had never seen me before: 

   "Heavens, darling! What _have_ you done to your hair?" I smiled, rather surprised that she'd taken note of the little change. I normally took to merely tying the loose curls back or braiding them, on occasion; but Italy – and Venice was hardly an exception- prided in extraordinarily hot summers, and I'd had plenty of that during my visit at Mother's, at the beginning of the summer. So, in tone to both the fashions and necessities, I'd undergone a most painful shortening of the raven locks up to level of the chin. Not having passed by ever since – few could truly formulate any accusations on the respect, as the Trelawneys most often showed me as much affection as I did to them- I was somewhat expecting a reaction.

  Most had nodded and said the new style was simply efficient, while a few of my more intimate acquaintances had formulated puns on my presumed ancestry to the Greek deity of the Seers, Apollo. I've not been able to escape the title of "bringer of the Light", or "Oracle" ever since, but, of course, trust Morianna to find every little detail greatly fascinating. 

   "You disapprove?" I inquired, solely to grant her the pleasure of voicing her enthusiasm in reply:

   "Of course not! You look so very handsome!" Twirling slightly in her place, she merrily swung over onto a sofa, spreading her long limbs in a feline position that vaguely brought to mind a young indolent Venus. She beckoned me to sit and I idly took her up on her invitation.

    "So, my precious darling, " she purred, as soon as I had sat, admiring the manner in which light played on the black stone of the ring, and making terribly certain that I witnessed her passion for the jewel, "what brings you to me?"

   "Is a cousin not allowed to pass by, for mere convenience, in the very house of his father, these days?"

   "Not when that one cousin happens to greatly dread this place, no." She smiled sweetly. "Come on, out with it. I'm dying for some news!"

   "It's…nothing." I shrugged. "The Order was simply overwhelming, this eve." Lying was a habit which I normally was not accustomed to undertake. First and foremost, because it was deceit that had got my mother pregnant and then cruelly denigrated, so I wouldn't have it as a main means of resolving any affairs. Secondly, and I was currently reminded as Morianna burst in a fit of laughter, because I was rather awful at it.

  "Oh, indeed, have you tired of venerating Scaliger? Somehow, that sounds unbelievable!"   

  Our little missives had, somehow, exchanged purposes. After my acceptance at the Order, I had been the one with the tales, and she the one to gasp in sheer amazement – Scaliger had merely been another personality well to her liking. This fact had been purely underlined by the fact that we shared yet another acquaintance in the person of another student under the famed mentor's care, Audiette de Saint-Remy. She was a pretty little wench of a middle-class lineage who'd never quite known success in any field, be it social or financial. She had quite the reputation amidst our ranks, mostly due to the said Seer cravings – somehow, she'd managed to get her claws on one of the finest pureblood Seers in the Order, Philip of Canterbury, chess player extraordinaire. I didn't mind, myself; Audiette's ambition would deal cards for her well enough, and this wasn't precisely a matter of my direct interest. If anything, knowledge of her dubious personality granted me the advantage of not growing into one of her illicit impulses, rather than diverting me from her.   

   "Yes. Well, expect the unexpected. "

   Her lips tucked in a pout. " So you're not going to tell me?"

   "Suffice to say I am here-"

   "-and for whatever the reasons, this is always an enchanting incidence." Gathering her veils and the folds of her dress, she quickly raised. "Agreed."

   "Do allow me to offer you a perspective of entertainment, then." I made no effort to hide my wonder, or, rather, my amusement. Morianna was fairly gifted where mesmerizing was concerned, and I was quite curious as to what intentions she had towards me. In a moment, I found myself following her as she paced back and forth through the room, toying with the ring.

   "There's a receiving, tomorrow eve. " No surprise here – London was packed with two things, and these were, paradoxically, Squibs and balls. "And I'd much need an escort."

    Ah. I allowed myself a subtle grimace. How very proper. Celia Trelawney wouldn't permit her daughter direct exposure to the leeches of London and to the receiving which the last wished to attend, so of course her beautiful maiden was forced to rely on the most precarious solutions… her cousin's company and supposed protection. It would please her mother, who would conveniently forget of the Italian predilection for corruption, and find me a most constructive influence, as well as Morianna, who knew she would be given full reign at the ball itself; I couldn't bring myself to refuse her anything, after all.  

   Still, this wasn't an alternative I was all that willing to contemplate. I didn't fancy outings – they demanded far too many contacts with people and their tastes, and everyone pretended they understood and adored each other, when this could hardly have been further from the truth. Also, one barely had time to think to the fullest, in another's company, and I loathed depending on instincts and impulses, being deprived of the possibility to think things through – gah, I just abhorred it, and that was that. 

   "Oh." I couldn't quite utter anything else. "Listen, Morianna…" Swirling, she caught hold of my arm, then kneeled nearside the sofa I still occupied nonchalantly.

   "Please, darling, cher, my beloved cousin, the only one who understands me!" 

   "Morianna-"

   "Please!" Clutching tighter still, she brought her delicate cheek to brush the lace of my sleeve, as if she were a little abandoned kitten, begging for comfort. "Please!"

   I chuckled. "Is this how you mean to entertain me? I don't like receivings, Morianna. You know as much."

  She innocently batted her lashes. "Oh, Ottaviano, I know I'm such a villain for asking this-" she eyed me imploringly.

  "-and still you ask." 

  My openly neutral response did not seem to startle her in the least, though I was attempting my best at being firm. I didn't want to get dragged into anything of the sort, and I silently wondered just how it was the subject had come up any a how. It was on account of people like Morianna that balls had been invented, and she was far from endearing to me, as she stood there, vestige of the very social abilities I had never fully mastered. 

  "I do. Ottaviano, you simply have to – do you believe in predestination?"

  "I'm not a Dominican, if that's what you're inquiring." I didn't see how I could be, any a how. While more widely spread in the 1500s, this one religious current had swept Italy and France with hardly an enduring effect. 

  "No, no, but think about it. You came over just when I was looking for an escort. You never come over, and if that wasn't a sign, I don't know just what is!"     

   Typical. Soon, she'd be telling me my subconscious had willed me to come there, that night, solely so as to accompany her. "Morianna, I don't think it wise. Besides, it's not all that much to my fancy, so-"

   "But there'll be lots of Ravenclaws there!" she threw, rather outraged by my reluctance, and rising speedily from my side, she resumed to pacing about yet again. "And-and-and…" 

   She turned to me. "The sight of the season shall be there!"

   "Who?"

   "Ulrich Grindelwald, of all things…"

  A small gasp there – I couldn't help it. Everyone with half a sense was acquainted with the tale of Lord Grindelwald, lover of the Arts of Change and hurricane through the Ministry's credos and principles. His new theories on re-inducing the magic in Squibs or enforcing the talents of those of weaker blood were fascinating in theory, but I, for one, highly doubted he would prevail in anything of the sort. I was all heart with the Squibs, of course. Poor bastards, they deserved a chance themselves. But what Grindelwald proposed, and the way in which he refused any compromise with the ministry and kept to his rules and his standing was horrid. He wouldn't renounce a procedure, wouldn't agree to any other sorts of experiments, wouldn't even accept a delay. It was his game or no one else's – and, sadly, this was something the wizardry world had learned speedily enough, with the new Squib and poor-blood associations ravaging wizardry London and protesting widely. 

  Still… 

 …to actually meet the brain behind this set of actions…to see the very mind…surely Morianna knew the sort of appeal this brand of suggestion held upon me. 

   A thin smile crept on her lips yet again. 

  "Won't you come?"

  "I…I don't feel like it, Morianna. Outings, you know what they mean to someone like me." And I didn't mean it as a Seer. There was still the matter of my legitimacy, and of the recognition still in due for me. Who's his mother? Why did she flee to Italy?  When was he conceived? These sort of questions invariably pursued me in all official affairs, and, understandably, I didn't take to them in the least.

   "But with Ulrich there-"

   Her enthusiasm rang somehow peculiar. "Ulrich?"

  I immediately knew something was quite wrong as she flushed crimson, beginning to noisily play with her fingers. "I've been…I've been writing to him."

  This was shocking news indeed. Morianna…writing…to another man? But-but- did Celia know? 

 "Don't look at me like that, Ottaviano," she snapped. "They were very much innocent missives, all of them…I just wanted to ask about the fame and fortune, and all that, you know, something I will never have?" There was a hint of exasperation in her words, and I knew better than to press her on the affair. 

   "Has he ever replied?"

   "Well…no," she murmured, somewhat puzzled. "But he sent me a card on Beltane…It wasn't signed, but I know it was from him, it had to be from him!"  

   "Surely a girl of your looks and talents-" she curtsied, taking to the compliments immensely, "has other admirers as well."

   "But they all signed their cards!" she shook her head stubbornly. "No, it was from Ulrich! It had to be him!" She stopped in the middle of the room. "And I have to see him."

  To my understanding, Grindelwald's whereabouts were never the same for more than two days in a row, which spoke highly of the time he managed to spend in London. So I wasn't all that surprised in hearing she'd not found any other way of contacting him up to now, but…still. Morianna and her fantasies were something I didn't care to add to my current list of burdens. Scaliger and his fits of conscience, as well as a prohibition against Inducing the Sight were engulfing issues themselves.

  I didn't want to be dragged into this. In fact, I told myself, I wouldn't be dragged into this.

  And then she said the magic words.

   "Please, Ottaviano…please?" I rose to my feet as well, and she took this opportunity to wrap herself around me, again. "Please? Pretty Morianna please?"

   Pretty. Morianna. Please. 

  Per Dio, I'd heard them all. But she had such nice eyes, and such a childish smile, and it was like denying a babe…I started walking off. Must resist the temptation. Agreeing would be far too easy, but the consequences would prove unbearable, I knew as much, and I didn't like it. 

   I had some will, after all, and it was high time I put it in use.

 "Please…?"

  Those eyes again. Hell have me. I nodded. 

 Laughing greatly, she tucked her arms upon mine, then with a curious amount of force for such an apparently defenseless maid, she had me follow a little pattern, waltzing with me through the corridor.

  "Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, " she kept whispering, and I could swear that, at one point, a little tear of joy glinted at the corner of her eyes. And I told myself, as regret on this decision began to corner me already, that this was how it had to be, that family loyalty, if nothing else, had to be given its credit. This was what my mother had tried to institute, and this was the reason for which she currently resided, bitter and alone, in one corner of Venice, instead of here, with me. In the end, and this was something I had appreciated throughout time, it all came down to principles.

  "Tomorrow eve, and then no more," I said, nearing the door under Iris Merrick's malicious looks. Apparently, it didn't do to content Morianna in anything, under her watch, which was, I thought, precisely why I made a face of being pleased by the ordeal myself. Iris Merrick was the common enemy, there. 

   "Of course," smiled Morianna and then, as I opened the door, inquired hastily: " but, pray tell, will you please duel him if he refu-"

   I made a purpose out of running off and out of that house in an instant, as Morianna muttered something along the lines of further pleas and accusations. 

   Didn't mind, though – one allowance for the Trelawney line was bad enough!

  Still bearing a smile, I focused on returning to the Order in one piece, and even that very much functional.

~~~~~~~~

    "Word has it Scaliger's had it hard on you, mate," murmured Aemilius Rosier, quite an intriguing amity of mine, at breakfast, next morn. In a few respects, at least, the Order of the Diviners had taken very much after the pattern Hogwarts had provided – accommodation was accounted for throughout the entire year. We were still permitted to come and go as we pleased, since we were of age, after all, but even these outings were limited to a certain number each week. Separate dormitories were placed at the disposition of each student willing to "donate" to the trusted funds of the Order– and by doing so, in addition to spiritual blessing, one also got to indulge in a bit of privacy.

   I had been rather thankful for this little allowance, in the first months of my first year, when the rumors had first formed, and recognition had settled it painfully.

  I could still recall the whispers, the little hushed relations between my name and other equally adamant appellatives. 

_  Bastard…_I'd hexed the oblivion out of the one to have originally uttered the word, and I was no man of fierce nature. I had hexed him and cried. I hated it, hated the name, hated what it represented, and hated the English for being so stubbornly dire about it. It wasn't my fault. Not my fault.

  It was normally expected of sons – especially of those whose creation had taken place beyond the bows of marriage- to sport a strenuously appreciative attitude to their sires. To present a certain affinity towards serving them and their tastes on their knees, while all the time nodding obligingly, like some awfully thick dogs that dedicate their entire lives to serving one master for having been once thrown a bone. Well, everyone's pardon, but I couldn't do it.

  Black sheep of the family, unfaithful son, whatever my status, I would not bow my head. I was not to be held accountable for events before my very coming to existence, and would not answer to a man who had only found fit to acknowledge me when his lineage deemed it was high time a Trelawney heir was produced. Undergoing the painfully lenient process of taking on Father's appellative had been an ominous enough hit to whatever roots of my pride, but I couldn't argue with Mother on that respect, not when she had waged a private inner war her entire youth on whether she ought to publicly claim me a Trelawney, after she'd fallen with child, and when my recognition as such had been all she had always desired. I couldn't disappoint her so. 

  Father's wife at the time might have had no reluctance or impediment to banishing a barely-of-age lady of lower rank than herself to her homeland of Italy, after her husband's betrayal and the conception of a child. And the mighty Lord Trelawney might have found it proper and quaint to convince Mother that I was to be admitted into his family with no further delay, once his legitimate consort met an early end, and he was left with no hopes of a successor. But from there to demand any sort of affection on my behalf was crossing one too many borders of both good taste and upbringing. I'd valiantly pointed a good spirit whilst aged eleven – that same year, I had been acknowledged, and Sebastian Trelawney had cautiously mentioned how all sons of his would learn the English tongue and the English rules, and attend the English school.

   So I had soon enough fallen in the ranks of Hogwarts' Ravenclaw, a mere lad of different country, and missing his mother terribly, and with scarcely a few words of English but a nice range of Italian invectives. I would always return to Mother in the summers and attempt to avoid any thoughts on my English blood and my English heritage. Quite futile, all in all, as by the time any fears on my origin being disputed at Hogwarts managed to fade, I was to leave the last. I had joined the Order of Diviners rapidly enough, and here the torment had again commenced. Although, having been granted a name for seven years then, they could still not grasp how a once illegitimate son could seek their company. No matter the circumstances. It was, and I had heard this curious phrasing times enough as to deem it little but a litany, "simply not the done thing."          

  Those students mentored by Scaliger aside me were far more "tolerant", to put it mildly. They didn't show their contempt on each occasion, and neither did they shun my presence. Of them all, Aemilius was the one with whom I'd got best familiar, and I did suspect this had a great deal to do with our both having experimented non-English environments. Granted, Italy and France weren't all that similar, but it still made muttering in our own tongues slightly more comprehensible to each other than to the innocent little English…and taking note of Aemilius…

 My eyes silently met his over the teapot. We commonly served our meals together, and, with the events of the other night demanding some sort of solemnity, I couldn't have pointed to anything being wrong by as much as breaking this habit. It was rather evident, however, that he'd hardly needed any suggestions whatsoever, and that he was well informed on the affair. Just how, I couldn't possibly imagine, but he knew, and that was that.   

   "There seems to be word on everything, these days," I noted, attempting to maintain at least a façade of tranquility and testing my tea through a nice sip. Gah. As poisonous as always. Why was it the British insisted in offering it to guests, when it seldom tasted accordingly, by the Italian fashion? Or at least the Chinese one, were the last more to their fancy. Per Dio, no! They had to do it all wonderfully British. 

  "Come on, Ottaviano. Everyone knows you Induce." He took a few biscuits, carefully dipping them in a thin layer of honey. "I'm rather surprised the tale hasn't reached the Council just yet. Don't think they'd be all that pleased."

  I shrugged, absent-mindedly. No, it wasn't true. I did not flaunt my accomplishments. I had initially – and still did so, seldom- discussed the performances with the fourth years, particularly on the issue of the…of the whispers. Somehow I managed to mask a shiver through a more determined clutch of my tea cup in yet another sip. But the matter he brought up was fairly interesting – and succeeded in reminding me just how great a gamble risking the loss of Scaliger's protection truly was.

  _They will throw you out of the Order._

 Would they truly? I ardently wished I could be confident on a negative reply. Nevertheless, I wasn't.  

  "The Council? Not be enticed to the core by the sparkles of their little jewel?" Both Aemilius and I turned to our right sweeping forth from which was the mignon figure of the steamy brunette, Audiette de Saint-Remy. The peaceful smile on her face spoke clearly of just how much she had overheard, and that no truly vital pieces of information had reached her knowledge. Even if everything was as Aemilius assessed it, a bit of subtlety couldn't hurt, so her ignorance – either true or pretended- pleased me.  Behind her rushed another gent of the Order, fourth year himself. Philip of Canterbury – Muggle-born, to Aemilius' often stated fascination.

   "Can't imagine that!" chirped a quite delighted Audiette, setting her tray on the table and seating herself in my vicinity. Philip greeted us with a curt nod, and took his place near Aemilius, preoccupying himself with the much demanding activity of gazing at the empty plate in front of him. Impulse insisted I urge him to go to the buffet and fetch himself a bite, but one glimpse told me swiftly enough what his precise trouble was. His eyes were little but sparkling, and the little blood vines near his temples and on his wrists were wondrously pronounced.

   _Hadden_. The late meditation. He was close. I delighted in watching the progress of others' Inducing of the Sight, mayhap simply because I could never follow my own. I knew all the stages in theory, of course, but their materialization was another thing entirely.

   There were four levels, one could tell, and in the old legends there had also been compounded a parallel between their passing and that of the seasons. There was the early meditation, Akarra. Lightheadedness, almost like being inebriated, and so wonderfully lost, but not quite as much as in the second one, Yarrai. The latter was said to function as something close to a sensorial anesthetic – a one Sella Weiss was said to have been healed of first-degree burns under it and not felt a thing. Then there was Hadden, ever so different to the first, a state in which one was constantly alert and painfully aware of nearly everything in the surroundings. One couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, could barely say word. All one could think of was the tumult of sensations, and its excruciating effect on the sore and sensitive organism.

   And then there was Abrasax. The state of Vision, plane of the mists.

   _And of the cold..._

  "You all right, Philip, old boy?" This was Aemilius, yet again. Canterbury's representative failed to provide an answer, merely nodding repeatedly. 

  "He's been like this the entire morning." Concern dripped fully from Audiette's words, but there wasn't a thing we could do for him, under the circumstances. 

Aemilius carefully buttered a few pieces of toast. "How long does it normally take?"

    It took me a few moments to realize I was the one to whom the question had been directed.

   "It all depends on the organism."

   The vagueness of the reply brought Audiette a smile. "Oh, honestly, Aemilius, don't you ever go over the theory?"

   He shrugged. "It's not bound to be of too much help, when you're truly webbed in it, now is it?"

  "Then why do you think they instruct us on the ordeal? For the sake of pretty eyes?" 

  "Mayhap for eyes, but his," said Aemilius, lowering steadily over the table towards Philip, and catching the peak of his chin by his thumb, raising it upwards. His face exposed, one could get a better look at the eyes – and this was hardly an endearing. Little bluish veins hung near the orb, and with Philip's eyes having been a watery azure as well, this held a distinct resemblance to a pile of nestled serpents, writhing heavily above. Sickening.

   "Are certainly not pretty,"  Aemilius finished, looking somewhat appalled himself. Letting go to Philip, the last indulged in a letting his head little but hang on his chest. His temples pounded formidably, and he'd gritted his teeth. Yes, these were great pains indeed – hearing, seeing, sensing everything, it was maddening. One kept feeling as if constantly persecuted. Emotion, movement, all around, no peace. No peace whatsoever. 

  "Scaliger came off rather distressed, the past eve, " commented Audiette, matter-of-factly, most likely hoping that, in changing the subject, she'd also put an end to Aemilius' disturbing explorations. Ought have been a Healer, Aemilius – God knew he could take on any sort of revolting view, and actually yearn to see it a second time. 

   "Rumor," noted Aemilius, his omniscient smile reminding me vaguely as to why I so very much loathed the latter word, "has it that he had sufficient reason, any a how."

   "Indeed." The topic wearied me. I still very much wished to know just how it was everyone had been more or less informed of the little ordeal. "Shouldn't he have a mentor nearside him?"               

   We all returned to Philip.

   "He's under master Tybalt. But they called for him." Audiette took a sip of her tea, apparently more pleased by its taste than myself. "At the Ministry."           

   "So he's all alone." If any dread shadowed Aemilius, his words did not show it. He did seem to exhibit a wondrous sense of calm, and this quite confirmed my theory on how a medical vocation would have much suited him. To my understanding, this was hardly viewed as disappointing, even by the uncongenial aristocracy, of which his rank made him very much part. It wasn't to my comprehension whether the Rosiers were particularly fond of Seers, or whether they too humored the upper class by a strictly dismayed attitude towards anything that did not hint towards the sacred social or financial standing. But an untrained Seer was a veritable danger to himself as to everyone aside him – and it was rather well known how a Seer's life was short lived, even without the prolonged crises of Sight- so the training for they of powerful talent in the Sight was quite compulsory.

   "Yes." Our female companion delicately picked at a creamy cake. "Why do you think they wanted Tybalt?"

   Aemilius burst out in laughter. "Oh, please, everyone knows, dearest."

   "Do enlighten us." I didn't know, and I pointed to as much. He weighed both my plea and Audiette's cake with considerable attention.

   "Sweets for the sweet," he remarked, simply. And while, under normal conditions, this might have been deemed as some sort of compliment, it was fairly evident as to where he hinted.

   "Oh, no! Go fetch your own, you silly brute, they're over there, at the buffet!"

  He seemed quite unmoved by her direction. "Yes, but the buffet's so far away…"

  Confronted to this sort of logic, Audiette offered an exasperated sigh, and carefully pushed her plate towards him. "Now speak, you villain."

  Nodding appreciatively towards the cake – and a nice chocolate layer, did the object of his affections have…- Aemilius kindly poured upon us the entirety of his wisdom, not forgetting to make perfect use of an all-knowing tone. 

   "Grindelwald." A supposedly tense pause followed. 

   "Oh, so I gave my cake for a ruddy word?"  

   "Silence, there's more!"

   "There had better be." She threateningly clasped both hands onto her chest.

   "The ministry hasn't taken all that well to his new petition. You see, he…he wants to make use of a few Seers. For his studies."

   I frowned, mildly. "But wasn't he principally centered on Alchemy?"

   "He is, to the Order of Change's great horror." Understandable. Then again, one would have normally believed any eccentric poor-blood with half a mind and a lovely Gringotts account would have invariably come to their liking. Considering how Alchemy was responsible for three out of five Damnables, curses of the Old, I couldn't see as to how anything or anyone could come to either surprise or alarm it.

   "But those new affairs in which he's meddled carry a great wager. He's promised a great deal to the Squibs and those of weak magic. He needs Seers for the new studies, and he needs trained ones, at that."

    "And the Order of Diviners doesn't like it," tested Audiette.

    "Of course not. Our branch holds as many old tales that had best remain so as every other. Besides, there aren't many Seers around, and they're not to be wasted. Understand, " Aemilius placed a hand onto his chest, as if to better underline the direct connection this had upon us "_we_ are not to be wasted."  

    "But doesn't the Ministry support Tybalt? Won't they hear him out then decide acco-"

   A long shriek broke the girl's last words, then Philip made his sole contribution to the conversation: "Head hurts."

 Even that was enough to redirect our attention upon him. As if to enforce his words, he suddenly clenched his hands on each side of his temples, further gritting his teeth and rocking back and forth upon his chair.

    "Head hurts…" he kept hissing in between what seemed little convulsions, and Aemilius felt forced to suggest his taking to the auditory.

    "No," Audiette shook her head. We were all on our feet, by now, save for Philip who had lost even the ability to utter word, and now clung to his seat and head like a madman. "Master Guido is there with Terrance Williams." She threw me an uneasy glance.

    "He'll need a warm space," Aemilius noted patiently, the only one of us who'd not lost reason.

    "Yes," I confirmed the obvious, feeling an abrupt touch of faintness myself, then composing just in time to help him pick a pained Philip up. I tried to avoid looking at him. Gods, was I like that as well? Did I cry like that? Or swing like that? Did I too shake and shiver? We never recalled these events after, and I currently thanked God for small mercies. "Yes he will."

   A voice from another table rung shallow: "Is he alright?" No doubt another fourth year or more so to have recognized the symptoms.

   "No, he's not all right!" muttered Aemilius, exasperated, and between the rather obscene comments concerning Philip's nature on account of doing this to him, I could swear I also heard something about his chocolate cake. Furious, he glided past the buffet area, with a tight grasp on Philip, and therefore imposing I increase the rhythm of my pacing as well.

   "Take him to the Astronomy Tower!" suggested the same man as before, and in due time, as well. Already, Philip was quivering madly and whitish foam escaped his lips, and his eyes had rolled back, now presenting a glistening silver. These indications, I'd been told, resembled greatly those of a mostly Muggle-branded disease, by the name of epilepsy.  

    The Astronomy Tower had had many uses, in its long time of existence, but I had a distinct impression we were about to settle a new. Situated to the Eastern lateral, and with a fine view towards Orion, it was commonly the one location where the one art we'd kept from Hogwarts was still researched. We took Astronomy twice a week, in our earlier years, then only once from the fourth on. It did have an unique quality, and this was precisely the one for which we'd now sought – since most studies were executed during the night times, and since all estimation were done in the chamber beneath the grand opening, it was very well heated.  

   "Put him there," said Audiette, sliding in front of us and motioning towards the grand Roman sofa placed near a walling, where the questioners sat during our examinations. 

  We roughly managed to carry Philip a few steps more, before launching him in the specified direction. I wasn't precisely a strong man, myself, and neither could Aemilius take pride in a striking constitution, so the ordeal had succeeded in draining us both.

  "So what now?" he demanded, and I could only think of a suggestion:

  "C-call for a mentor?"

  "No time – " Audiette shook her head. She'd lowered near Philip, enclosing her fingers to his. It did him no good, as he was hardly conscious at the time, but still, her affection was visible. "He'll be in the mists by the time one arrives."

  Aemilius' expression was yet again that of sheer exasperation: "So what _do_ we do?"

  She shrugged: "I don't- Ottaviano!"

 Between shakes and twists, Philip had now begun uttering. He kept slamming his head back and forth on the sofa, and Audiette was doing her best to keep him down. Only now, his eyes too rolled, and his veins were incredibly darkened, as he tried to speak. I couldn't tell what, at first, then it was all very much clear. And the voice he used, the voice seemed to pour through him. The lips to spawn them were his, true, but the voice was cold, and dead, and not like Philip's gentle tone, and not like his phrasing… 

  "Aris, Braxen, Rowah…" 

  "What's he doing?" Audiette clung to my arms, and tears swept her face violently. "Ottaviano, you've been through this, help him!" 

  "I-I…" I didn't know what to do. Aris…Braxen…Rowah…these were letters from the Diviners' alphabet, standing for A, B and R, respectively. He was murmuring them. And Audiette was yelling and pulling my sleeves, and asking me to help – but I didn't know how to help him! I didn't want his life in my hands, I wanted to call a Seer, a mentor, someone who could divert him from the mists. What if I failed? And even that was supposing that I knew how to handle the situation and therefore submit my actions to risk; but I didn't know. I was alone on this, and I didn't know what to do.

  "Aris…" Philip chanted. 

 And then I understood. "He's…"

  Aemilius had lost all patience, and now grasped me as well. Damn him, it did no good to shake me further, I just wanted a mentor, I- "What's he doing? Ottaviano!"

  "He's…he's… " had to think…had to think…why did they hurry me? I had to think! "Sanen." The S of the Diviners' code.

  "Sanen," Philip repeated. I tested further:

  "Aris."

  "Aris..."

  I drew in. Last of the lot, were I correct. "Xanou."

  "Xanou..."

  And then together, we whispered: "Aris. Braxen. Rowah. Aris. Sanen. Aris. Xanou. " 

  "Abrasax," said Audiette, putting the letters in their Romanic correspondent.

  I nodded. "Aye." 

  "What was the next step…" Aemilius let go of my arms, and only then could I discern the soreness of the places where he'd taken hold of me.

  The woman rose to her feet then calmly paced back and forth, reminding me vaguely of Morianna. Oh, would that I lived to tell her of this, she'd know not to envy my gift as a Seer, had she ever done so! "Think of the theory – " 

  "I don't know!" I snapped. This was ridiculous, I didn't remember anything of the ritual, just like I didn't of what I had prophesized as well. Scaliger carried me through the knowledge, Scaliger had tended to all this, I didn't remember! Why couldn't they understand? "We don't learn how to mentor anyone or ourselves 'til fifth year!"

  "Damned be Tybalt and his outings!" Aemilius slammed a fist to the wall in open fury. I gave him a reproachful look – thought he we were any more pleased by the ordeal than he?- and then my eyes fell on the tapestry…red…red like… 

  "T-there were rose petals in the auditory…I had rose petals on my lips upon awakening. On my hands as well. "

   "Conjure some roses!" He turned towards Audiette, who merely shook her head.

  "We can't – magical interferences while the subject resides in Abrasax cause great damage. He might- oh, who knows what might happen!"

 As if to remind her of where she was best needed, Philip suddenly shook up, then again underwent his convulsive halts.

  I tried to keep my mind on the other train of events, on our little search. This didn't do. Rose petals were a constant element. They had to be there, and I said as much. "Rose petals and water. Always. Crimson on the water. Crimson water…"

  Aemilius' face suddenly lit in understanding. "A symbol. Remember Scaliger's first lesson?" He quoted, smoothly: " _A Seer knows not pain nor hurt, for he or she ties to the earth_ "

  Audiette frowned, more pointing concentration than anger: " Wasn't that from-?"

  The inquiry unsettled Aemilius: "Blimey, who ruddy cares? Earth, my boy, materia, corpusculi, a tie to the earth. Crimson in water – that's only a symbol. A replacement!"

  "For the real tie…" My eyes lost on the ground. "Blood."

  Aemilius again took to sporting his perfect calm and, on a firm tonality, extended a hand towards the woman, whose convulsive shakes spoke enough of just how much this affected her.  "Audiette, your stiletto."

  She looked up, even her lips as much as trembling. "Your pardon?"

  "I know you carry one, hand it over," he murmured, then sketched but not a gesture as she silently parted a the layers of golden lace from her skirt, finally revealing a shapely thigh, and, upon it, tied with a little string of velvet, a pointy little dagger. Aemilius soon took hold of it, keeping it in the light, and then, with a sigh, murmured bitterly: "Cursed be you, Philip!"

  And then, with no notice, he made a little cut on his palm. Not deep, but blood poured enough, still, and the three of us all stopped to gaze to the crimson liquid in wonder. As if it were the first time we had laid eye upon its brand, and, somehow, it was. We'd all seen blood, all of us, as an element of continuity, of maintenance. And now it was about to make a swift transformation to something far more, to a tool of occult creation…

  "Blood…" whispered Audiette, and as Aemilius let a few good drops be placed on Philip's lips, then his wrists, I though she would faint. The carnality of it all was dazzling, and I found it obstinately fascinating. 

    "You bloody owe me, you Mudblood!" said Aemilius, weakly, casting another glance towards the shaking Philip. We all cared for Philip, there was no point in feigning it. And seeing him like that…

  I pushed the sofa more towards the center of the room, again making use of an insufficient strength. Damn it all to hell. Aemilius had grasped his own hand by the wrist, and kept looking at the wound with a dread that I took a few instants to reason. Despite all Audiette's claims, he knew the theory – and if not, his instinct served him well enough.

  We had to build the circle, the circle of the 365 spheres. As many spheres as days in the years, as many mists in the realm of Abrasax. 

  "Aris," he murmured, nodding, as if having noted my recognition and urging me to go on. I took the dagger that bore still his blood, then encrypted in a corner, on the floor, the design of the letter Aris. Then handed the dagger for him to wipe again on his wound. More blood, we needed more blood. Had to draw the whole of it, in the circle. 

  "Braxen. Rowah. Aris. Sanen. Aris. Xanou…." His litany, it became, and I drew them all, loyally. Blood, all blood, and Philip kept shaking. Poor Philip. Poor Aemilius. So much blood… 

  I had never understood why we did not use the Greek alphabet but the Diviner's one in writing a few things. Abrasax was one of them – it only seemed to make sense if you wrote it under the Greek letters. Alpha for A – and the correspondent number for alpha, which was 1. Beta for B- the number was 2. Ro for R – 100. Another Alpha – 1. Sigma for S – 200. Alpha again – 1. Then Hi for X – 60. Add them up, and you got 365. 

  I sketched them all faithfully.

  "Abrasax," said Aemilius, in barely a whisper, and then I uttered myself:

  "The realm of mists..." and we all gazed in horror as Philip's body, from shaking madly, had grown remotely cold and still.   

                                                                                                          ~~~~~~~~~ 

  But what we had believed a most demanding and forceful task was in no way as easily ended. Philip stood in his place, a mass of pale flesh and bone, and even his breath seemed frozen when meeting the air. Audiette had neared him, yet again. Questioning, her elegant fingers had probed his hand – and there was reason enough to fear the touch. He was hideously cold. Almost like a cadaver, only even with those there was the vague distinctive thread of solemnity, of having earned passage to that one "better place". There was no such reassurance here, only the loss in the mists, and we had not heart nor courage enough to ponder the dreadful consequences of such an action.  

  "Do something," she pleaded, finally. "Anything! Just do it!"

  "I-" I drew in. I had been standing near the wall, where Aemilius had seen fit to position me. I'd found soon enough that I could no longer depend on own forces, and that whatever physical strength I may have indeed possessed was simply diminished under emotional stress. I'd always known I held not the organized mind, and that I couldn't, as British gentry seemed to find fit, draw the line and just not take note of the circumstances. I couldn't distance myself from the surroundings, as much, and I couldn't play their emotionless games. "I can't! Get a mentor!" 

  "Don't further panic," advised Aemilius. He'd slipped towards a wall himself, and had somehow procured a little flask that indubitably contained some sort of popular "anesthetic" – Firewhiskey. "Just do what need be done." He shrugged, and in front of his evident casualty – as generated by the little liquor-provided oblivion as it might have been- I couldn't help but further damn my weakness in the respect. 

  "I…can't…"

  Audiette's eyes met mine instantly. "Please, Ottaviano. Please…" I wanted to reply, and to tell her just why I couldn't, why it wasn't in my power. I wanted to tell her of the devastating sensation, of how wrong it was of her to place this sort of responsibility upon my shoulder. Of how weak I was, and how I could gamble his life, and that this was not a jest in which I cared to indulge. Not one in which I had the power to do so. 

  But I wasn't offered the chance. In his place, Philip commenced another series of trembles, and the voice that haunted him echoed feebly a second time:  

  _" Cold…cold…"_

 Aemilius' determination and Audiette's implorations heartened my answer. "No, not cold, think not of the cold."

  _"It's cold, and the whisper, cold-"_

  I clasped my hands and walked towards him. Somehow, the distance between us brought unease to me, if not to him, and I longed for some sort of touch. "Philip, don't panic. Focus on the whisper."

_  "The whisper is cold…" _he shifted in his place, threw a hand up then let the motion die as I grasped it, our fingers tangling in a dance of the flesh.

  "It is." The resolve in my tonality was as false as Audiette's innocence. "But listen to it."

  _"Cold!"_ Don't fall in the mists, I wanted to cry, don't fall…and still, he could so very easily…

  "No, no, don't, Philip, think of the warmth, the color."

  _"There is only gray…,"_ he said, and this assessment grieved him immensely.  I tried to think of it, think of mists myself, to recall the experience, but I couldn't. It seemed so far away, so distant from the then and there, from the way in which our skin tied, and Aemilius' blood flickered cruelly on his lips…  

  "Yes. Gray. But it will be no longer, for the gray shall pass, and once it does there will be but you, and the warmth within you. Think not of the cold."

  "Fire of silver…lord of the blazes…"

 I gasped. Lord of the blazes… there was such a startling familiarity in those words, such a dazzling perfection…my prophecy. My prophecy as well. It had to be. I immediately attempted to banish this thought – Scaliger would have told me had I uttered such words, and he hadn't, so I mustn't have…but still…

  "Ottaviano, is everything alright?" 

 Someone – Audiette, or Aemilius, or mayhap the both or even none but the wicked voices in my mind- had posed the inquiry, and I nodded. We were alone, Philip and I, alone in a chamber of dreams. And as he lived for the words he bled, so did I for him and they; and that they could have such immense power over him, over him, well that was wrong, so very, very wrong. I hated it, and yearned for it all the same. The gift of the Sight. Such a horrid little talent. More of a curse.

  "Lord of the Whisper, whose voice has grown silent." He paused, and I thought he would end this, but he didn't. "Lord of the Webs whose nets have faded. Lord of the Blazes...Lord of the Blazes who shall know life…"

  Audiette offered me a look of concern, and what little tears had earlier shadowed her beauty now only came to endow her with an undoubted excellence as she birthed them silently. Ever so quickly I obliged in a quick inner question, in concern to the nature of the relations between Philip and she. There was evidently something there to have escaped my attention… 

  _"Lord of the Blazes, Lord of the-"_ behind me, the door slammed open, and my two companions shrieked with something a slight close to relief, or terror. I didn't turn – I couldn't turn. I could only carry on Philip's hymn and his passion. 

  "_Lord of the Blazes, command thee-"_

  Abruptly, I was thrown off my feet. I reached the wall, softly, finding that I had only then and there regained my breath. I hadn't even known I'd held it insofar, but this dizziness and fascination for Philip and his chant seemed to dissolve almost immediately. I made to ask what happened, but then I too saw the darken figure who now laid bent upon him, two fingers placed on Philip's forehead, and murmuring powerfully:

  "There is blood before you, there is blood upon you, there is blood within you, awaken!"

  Audiette's tears turned from grief to joy, then fear. "Maestro Scaliger… "

  "Not a word from you, Miss Saint-Remy." He turned to the still open door, and in the borderline I could distinguish the slim frame of the man to have directed us to the Astronomoy Tower. "Leonard, take Mister Canterbury to proper accommodation." The student murmured a note of acceptance of his duty, then quickly went to pick Philip, who'd by now seen fit to stand. His eyes were awfully blurred, as I knew mine to always be under these conditions, and as I offered him my cape, I could see him tuck it to his mouth. He appeared at the verge of throwing up, and his constant claims of a headache said enough on just how much the ordeal had affected him on a physical scale.

  Poor bastard. Wait he until he would meet the true emotional consequences, the ignorance on what had come to pass, the pain of sensing the prophecy had been there, that it had swept him by…that the Sight was not his captive but tormentor…  

  "What you have done here is monstrous. You were not prepared to do this, you risked his life, and your own!" There was no hiding Scaliger's ferocity, and it was deeply carved on his face as he'd even gritted his teeth and rather hissed his accusations than spoke them: "Why?"

  "We didn't have time to call on-" Aemilius' attempt to explain was met by an unsympathetic glance.

  "You had time! What you did not have was knowledge, and you made use of this, and risked a man's life! How dare you? How ruddy dare you? Oh, would that I never laid eyes upon you, but I have, and for this very reason I grant you a last word. Be gone to your chambers, the two of you, I shall seek you in private. The one I wish to address, the one who best knew the gamble, the one who broke his word is here in front of me, and it is with him that I shall have the first battle. Wage your own with your own consciences, until I attend to you."

  Silence followed keenly. But they did as he asked. The door closed with Aemilius murmuring his remaining apologies. I sank on the sofa, the depth of the experience having bewildered me completely. I wanted to leave, wanted to breathe in, wanting to forget. And the worst of it was that, while there was solace for Philip Canterbury, there would be none for me. Further more, there was the matter of the prophecy and its correlation to what I sincerely believed to be my own as well. Something in the shadows…whispers…and now Scaliger ominously settling his scrutinizing glare upon me…

  Reality returned to me through Scaliger's bitter murmur:

   "I will not shelter my fears or fury, Ottaviano. There is only one penalty for those who taunt fortune as you just have, and for those who do not heed rules. And even this does not suffice for what you – all of you- just did. Expulsion, dear boy. Expulsion from the Order of Diviners."    

 ****

  **Author's note:** I hope I haven't managed to confuse what little readers I do have by this passage. I have always fancied books that also presented the perspective of the "villains", and I wanted to introduce a character that would grant me this very sort of "backstage view". While I realize this may seem highly unlikely under the given circumstances, I do plan to make Ottaviano a companion for Ulrich Grindelwald, through a series of more or less curious occurrences…

 But back to the story. The concept behind Abrasax isn't entirely mine, so allow me to give credit where it is due – to put it mildly, mythology:****

**Abrasax** is a demon or demonic plane commonly invoked spells (ie in love spells from ancient Greece). The letters of his Greek name, ABΣPΞ, add up to 365: A = 1, B = 2, Σ = 200, P = 100, Ξ = 60. He is known as the demon of the Great Year in Egypt, the length of which is 10,000 years. *

  Returning to the idea of using it in Divination (I hope I haven't truly prevailed in confusing the daylights out of everyone through it). I have always believed there had to be a difference between the First Sight and the Second Sight – and then it came to me that there must be two types of Sight. First, the one that is planned, meditated. Induced. And then the one from which Trelawney suffered, at some point, momentary. The latter is more rare but, I believe, more accurate.

  At any right, the coming of the Sight wasn't meant as an easy process. There are a few steps before the Seer reaches the mental and inner plane of Abrasax, the realm of mists and visions, where this "demon", as Ottaviano calls it, whispers the prophecies. Since every excess has its downfall, I've thought of the "fall in the mists" as the consequence of the Seer loosing him or herself in between the planes of the past, present and future – and upon doing so, damning the soul and body forever. Almost like getting the Dementor's Kiss. No longer being there in soul, but caught somewhere… Hope this explained a bit! 

   Now, on to the critics:

  First and foremost, thank you to everyone who's read, and anyone who's reviewed!

 Secondly, answers.

**  Leaf:** It's not what Phineas did do to grow into the most hated headmaster of Hogwarts, but what was forced upon him, and how this embittered him. 

  **Rose:** yes, you are right, witches are as handy with a wand as wizards and discrimination oughtn't exist. But Brodick's rather a stuck up little prick, on occasion, and he enjoys thinking of women as these wonderfully idiotic and purely ornamental beings. While I acknowledge Morianna is pretty much that sort of a person, I wanted to convey a stronger image for Audiette (who will indeed use men to her liking) and Lady Vanora, who, in the future chapters, shall quite surprise...

  Thank you so very, very, VERY much for all the reviews, and for making them so detailed! If you have any further questions, comments, please leave them on, I so do enjoy reading them!

**  Next chapter: Back at Grimmauld and in Brodick's private little hell…**


	3. Brodick Black: Vault 711

**Brodick Black, 1859.**

As with most grand exploits of our given world, lying too is very much a disputed art, with rules and traditions of its own to decree triumph or damnation. Of course, I had been instructed in them from quite the early age. 

  The first rule was simple enough, as are most theories: a skilled liar uses of the truth as much as he can. There is no greater tool than the circumstances put at their proper valor, and therefore, one would have to make as  much use of the given conditions as possible.

  The second was somewhat contradictory to the first– exaggeration, if adequately instilled, can and will be the grander master and the better lord. Weave your own tale, and swirl it so gracefully, so for at each fold one is to find the fruit of your doing, and that his will be overwhelmed by your fiction.

  And the third – for there is always the third and the last- was the most demanding. Put in each and all thought and care, but never passion. Structure the pretense, tend to it closely; but do not let it overcome you, and do not fall in its web so much as to permit any an emotion. Give in to the last, and you are forever condemned. 

 It was with this brand of knowledge that I had been since a helpless youngling armed, and with their study that I had constantly been forced to endeavor. Aristocracy was, as one could imagine, a thin castle of appearances. Look beyond one, and you can see beyond them all, and the portrayed image is guaranteed to prove undesirable for the tender heart.

 But why do even our closest principles leave us when a situation escapes our control? Why do we not heed the ancient credos we had once kept as little but sacred? And why did these little details of the game of lies that I had for so long played not echo in my mind those days…? One cannot tell. 

 But they did not – and so from predator I grew the pursued, and in the realm of lies I was the hunted. I did not return to these formidable doctrines when I was still in power to do so. I merely sank in the sea of ignorance and blind faith, and took not the time to read beyond the fine lines of the devil's ploy. So it was. Through my own lack of consideration for the rules of the Old, I embraced downfall.

                                                                                                                             ~~~~~~~~~~~~  

"Rhosyn!"

  I was shouting like a madman. A thin layer of sweat had cornered my forehead. I could feel it cold, imbuing to the skin, and I wanted it to fade, but it wouldn't. I was angry for its presence as much as I was for my hellish weakness in forming it. 

  I was little but running through the corridors. One-two-breathe in. Each breath was a nightmare, as if sheer venom had tainted the air. I loathed it. Took the wrong turn, ended up in the closets, no, where were the kitchens? Gods, why was this house so dark? Despair was such an infinitely devouring emotion. It took full reign – I called out:

"Rhosyn, where in bloody Salazar's name are you?" More pain in my chest. I kept running. In the moments to follow, I would think of how I'd made din enough to awake an entire army, and how it was something short of a miracle that Mama failed to descend to check in to the reason of all this great alarm. But I didn't care then. All I cared about was the blood. So much blood…

  "Rhosyn!"

  I stopped in the middle of the passage. Both hands brushed the eyes, meeting the dire fluid. For a moment I wondered whether it too was blood, though logic said enough of the impossibility of it ever being so. Where was I? I looked around. More dusk, more silence. My wand still in the receiving room, where I'd dropped it so carelessly. Merlin. I drew in, straightened in my place and made to walk further towards my notion of where the kitchens might have been.  

"Master called?" I winced. So good of the darkness to mask this frail gesture – it was only Aristotle. He'd somehow crept from behind. 

"Yes, I called, Aristotle! Go to the receiving chamber, at once, tell me what you make of it! And where's Rhosyn?"

 He made no attempt to hide his perplex. "I-I…a moment, sir…"

"Go! Rhosyn!" Dark, all around. Where was the accursed elf? I made for the other corridor. "RHOSYN!"

"Here, master…" The refreshing reward of my efforts was surprisingly feeble and mild.

"Where the ruddy hell have you been?" For a second time, big blue eyes greeted me in puzzlement. I had no more patience to stand for this sort of ordeal, and merely took her by her scrawny arm. "Come!" 

  Run, walk, leap, what was the difference? I dragged Rhosyn behind me up to the receiving hall; I wanted her to see, wanted them all to see, because if they saw it, then it was real, and I couldn't be mad. No, no, couldn't be mad. It was quite foolish of me to keep to this obsessive thought. Insanity was not hereditary, Father had told me as soon as I had grown of age enough as to inquire on the subject. And it was that insanity was not hereditary that I told myself just as I entered the hall, letting Rhosyn in front, to catch full sight.

 But if it was gasps, or cries of amazements, or even a little alarm, this was not what I received. No, definitely not, and neither did the image presented in the very chamber meet my expectations.

 "Sir…?" asked Rhosyn softly, walking further in the room. 

 I couldn't answer. All I could do was breathe in, and look forward, into the quarters. Gaze at the mirror, in front of me. And the blood which had disappeared from it. 

   "Did you erase it, Aristotle?" The elf shook his head and eyed me with open terror. Indeed, I must have seemed of no mental balance at all, and I truly was above such affairs, I knew I was…but he couldn't have. Elves, untrustworthy – or simply far too clumsy for such a privilege, as Aristotle- elves were prohibited the usage of their magic. Little bands of silver passed through wizardry fire were tied to each of their fingers. Magic grew unattainable for them, as higher spells than their own tied them to the rings. How heavenly ironic. On one side, the wizardry kin despised and denigrated all that knew not magic. The uproaring Squib revolts spoke of as much. And on the other hand, they found comfort and solace only in knowing others kept away from this very talent. 

 "You've not the power to, you've been ringed, you've not the power to – you wiped it! You fool, you wiped it!"

"'Totle didn't, master."

"Can't be, it was here, tell me the truth- did you wipe it, Aristotle?"

"'Totle didn't wipe it, sir, 'Totle saw nothing, 'Totle know nothing – Sir tired?"

"Aristotle, there was blood here! Here! Blood! It was blood, I tell you, it was here!" They both looked at me warily, and I thought, for a second, as just how I must have appeared to them. A madman with little sense and less reason – or perhaps they thought me drunk? I was pointing to a mirror and claiming it filled with blood, when the ensemble had never been clearer. And they most likely believed me off in the head, which I wasn't. I wasn't mad! Everyone was acquainted with the little tales of my family, with my great aunt's insanity, and the same with grand-grandsire, and a few before them – and true, the linking was too direct, but it was not hereditary! I was not mad! I was _not_ mad!

"Go to your quarters- get out. Out! I don't want to catch sight of you innocents any longer!"

  I had to think. Firstly, I decreed, it was best for the maintenance of my own mental sanity that a few allowances be made. Logic was the etiquette-deemed path to follow, and, therefore, the sole I was to favor. A fruitful analysis was one where all probabilities were checked, ergo, assumptions were permitted; and I had to consent that they did serve me better, at the time.

  So, I might have, indeed, imagined the entire ordeal. The chances were very slim, yet I could not entirely ignore the possibility. But I was not mad. Fatigue and shock had amounted heavily, and I was human, for all my efforts to demonstrate superiority over this trifling rank. So I might have been influenced by these two factors. 

   I was not mad. Not mad. No. Merely tired. Yes, this was a more appealing prospect. We all tire, at one point. Even Father had been drained enough as to withdraw to the Order of Change's experiments rather than continue his more elaborate and requesting studies. Weakness was, in these extents, understandable. 

  A reaction to the situation was most certainly the done thing, so my weariness – I had now vehemently judged it as such- was in close calls to the Black code of conduit as well. It didn't do to show too much composure, at certain times. This was one of them.

~~~~~~~~~~

   It was dreadfully hot in my room. Hot, hot, hot – so very hot. I couldn't stand it. I woke with a dry taste in my mouth. Soft folds of velvet crushed under my weight, as I threw the covers aside. It was still too hot. My chambers weren't precisely the fittest for winter arrangements, which comforted me greatly, as I had always preferred the cold. This was partly why, steadying my legs on the side of the bed, I bravely attempted to see just what it was to have caused the infernal atmosphere. To my surprise, I could find no blazes tangling to the nocturnal wind, providing the abominable heat. This didn't – wouldn't do. No flames meant no means to stop the heat. 

   Gods… I rose to my feet. Pit-pat, pit-pat, stepping on the dry flooring. Pit-pat, toes playing on and on in the dark. I made for the nearest window. Pit-pat. A smile crept slowly.  

  The view was magnificent, of course. Nothing less would be worthy of an August night and of Grimmauld. Darkness all around, and I loved it.   

  Black, I knew, was regarded with fright, or dread. All miseries accompany black, the word went, for black is the color of death. I didn't see black in that manner. Black was dominant, endless, true. But black, if anything, was also merciful. Black was the promise, the soothing voice. Black was redemption. When the dead were carried to the earth in their fine cloths and veils, it was black that they bore, and black that they took with them to eternity. Black was for the weeping ground. And white was for the remaining. White was the crueler of the two, for white lingered with the souls that had not met consolation. White engulfed, white enthralled. But white did not maintain. White was purity, was it not? Purity of the snow, that knew no such thing for more than a few days, before the earth or the rains tainted it? Or purity of the virgin bride, who went to sacrifice her most expensive gift on the bed of a matrimony that only convenience had brought upon? White was everlasting, and perhaps this in itself was why white was hypocrisy. White was the game. Black was the passing rule. White condemned. Black forgave. Such was the nature of things.

   I loved the nights at Grimmauld. They couldn't be blacker.

  But I had other worries on my mind, currently. The heat was startlingly intense for my tastes, and I wanted it gone. There were no flames in my fireplace, yes, but it was also to my understanding that the outsides of the walls, and even the insides, beneath the tapestries, were covered with marble. It had been a trifle of Bartholomew Black the Third -Father's grandsire- that such arrangements be made during his time at Grimmauld. Marble, commonly cold, induced heat easily from any other chambers that had the last in great excess. Since it normally increased the cold, I'd been most obliged in keeping it in this room. Pity that I now had to find its disadvantages, as well. Which could only mean that, somewhere, someone had seen to replicating one of the pits of hell in what heat was concerned. And that someone was bound to hear a few words from me. Lest it was Mama, naturally. Then I'd have to bow my head, think of the babe, and mutter some sort of pleas in the direction. But Mama's apartments were situated in the opposite wing, so I may just be spared this sort of humiliation.

    Walking off in the corridors proved an undemanding task. I knew every corner, every step – just here, for instance, there was a screeching tug under the carpet. Step on it, and it'd make your presence known through the entire house. A few more steps towards the eastern side, and one neared the marble. Marble was slightly colder, commonly, though it was a tad warm, now. I didn't like the feel, but I acknowledged the surroundings with ease, through this fashion. Nearing the bathing chambers. It didn't do to light the place. First and foremost because of the paintings. Their control was quite the effort even under normal circumstances; the Black gentry, greeting us faintly from behind wooden frames, in spite of its previous status, was twice as eager to renounce all claims to a sensible demeanor if woken during nights. 

   Still, one had to explore the area. See for where the heat had grown to this abominable level. Break some furniture and curse a random house elf in the process. That sort of thing.

  But what I had not expected – what I never could have expected – was the sight of light, carefully pouring from a cracked door. Like a little golden string, bending, twisting, on the flooring. A Serpent, much like the one we were so rightfully told to praise – and wasn't the serpent the purest of forms, in all truths? With the endless length, forming the circle. There was life in the serpent, so it only seemed fit for light, another form of life itself, to take this shape, on occasion.

  What was not as suitable, however, was the source of this light. Father's study. Normally, I would have shown some mild courtesy and made a strategic retreat to my chambers before being taken in for a thorough interrogation as to my intentions. Father's eyes were, after all, legendary. But no such claim was made, as I passed by the door, none as I entered, and found the "intruder" clenched to the sofa.

  Of course Father wasn't in. I had specifically heard him – well, perhaps "heard" was a tad too indulgent where my demeanor had been concerned- him mention his subsequent location to the idiotic house elves. My reward for asking the latter of his whereabouts would probably be a long, blank look, but I needed not their approval. It was suiting for Father to flee home, where his more elaborate studies laid, and attend to those less demanding yet still important ones of the Order of Change. After the events of the evening, he most likely required some sort of rest. Poor Father. Were he not a Slytherin, and therefore perfectly capable of twisting others to his will and putting a good a share of work on their shoulders, I would have rather felt pity for him. 

  But that was hardly the matter. Father was not in. Which could only make the figure occupying his quarter…  

"Phineas."

 He turned  abruptly to me, mouth fully open in evident shock. From his small pale hands, with a thud, two heavy books fell to the flooring.

  "B-Brodick." Two sets of mirrored eyes locked onto the two tomes at his feet. "You gave me a fright", he murmured, in the end. Silently, I kneeled beside him, near the books.  

"Now why ever would that occur?" I didn't need to look up to know he was following my every gesture with the sort of troubling fear and curiosity animals show upon finding they've grown into nothing more than persecuted prey. I fingered on the book's title…ah…"Spells Throughout the Ages"…the bloody fool. Thought he that 

he could get away with it? A blood summon or encrypting charm were elementary exercises, their presence in such a vast encyclopedia was imperious. A few little questions were spawn instantly: my dear little brother…had he been the one to account for the blood writing? His previously claimed hatred for the babe to come _did_ grace this one theory with a particular note of credibility. But, surely, Phineas couldn't yet cast…Still…I'd heard of such cases, of very high potentials. Were he to put his mind to it…besides, we Blacks were quite known for starting young. Gave the root something to take pride in, if nothing else.

  Curiosity sprinkled my thoughts. Phineas? I eyed him steadily, and should there have been any superior intelligence or magic hidden behind those darken bluish eyes, I, for one, could surely not tell it. I returned to the second book.

  Well, well…if the predecessor had dazzled me, the second one brought upon my lips a bitter smile. Poor old Phineas. He'd probably meant to cover the "Spells Throughout the Ages" with this one, should anyone come in on him. Quite an admirably ploy, definitely Slytherin material. Pity he'd dropped them both, though.

"Bothering with a late lecture, I take it?"

"Merely a trifle," he mumbled, taking the two books and planting them on Father's desk. I retained the second one, however. His intentions with it had amused it enough as to casually remark on the impossibility of him ever truly reading it. Let this serve him as a lesson, at least – next time he picked a book to mask another, he ought be a tad more sensible on his choice:

"Great Alchemists of the Old. How very…tedious." I allowed myself a private smile. Oh, I could now consider it so. But this was a luxury so many tears had bought…

_"Who first came about the Elixir of a Thousand Changes?"_ echoed Father's soft voice in my mind.

 _"Nicholas Flamel the Fourth, sir." _

 _"Hardly."_  Snap went the silk whip – _"It was the Third. One-Two-Three."_ Snap. Snap. Snap. The silken whip would brush my fingers. Learn the rules, was the conveyed message. There was no error for a Black, no failure. And hesitation brought upon dire consequences. 

  Father had carried a whip of wet silk, a meter long, that served, at various times, as an accessory, a means of attracting attention or, in this particular case, of enforcing the discipline. Snap. I could still feel the sting on my fingers.

 It was to my understanding that that the whip had been disposed of upon the completion of my early education, and that it currently resided in the hand of the French governess, Elisse. Having dealt with his main priority, his heir, father had left the attendance of his junior son to a woman who felt the need to employ the same measures of intimidation. I wondered, silently, just how much of the whip Phineas had known already.

  This brought his current circumstance to mind, and I tried to compensate for my abrupt silence by supporting on banality. 

   "Instructive, true. But tedious."

  He extended a hand to reach for the book, eyeing me, dazzled: "I just wanted to-"          

   "Oh, I know just what you wanted," I muttered, tossing it to him. He didn't catch it, naturally. Silly little thing, maybe Declan did have half a sense in saying he had been born a feline's spawn, and deserved to be drawn as such. He was commonly all so very nice and fluffy, agreed, but his current uselessness pestered me immensely: "And let me tell you beforehand, you shan't prevail."

   "W-what in, Brodick? I do not understand."

   "The blood, Darius, a sudden interest in spells and Alchemy…all this. The babe shan't steal your place in Father and Mother's attentions. But ill behavior may and will."

   "But Brodick, I-" He took a few steps back, staggered, then fell round on the carpet. His entire face bore a mild air of confusion, and I could tell, as he cupped both hands on the sides of his knee caps, then thighs, that the twit had managed to somehow fall on the very book of Alchemy. Dear Merlin. I hoped he wasn't bleeding; it would have meant sheer disaster for the carpet.  

    "You will let me finish," I noted wryly, helping him up. "I have said not a thing on the account, but everything, the writing, it had better cease. At once. I will not tolerate this sort of demeanor under this roof. Do you understand me?"  

  He didn't answer, at first, though his lower lip began to tremble furiously. Almost as if he readied to burst into tears yet aga-

  He did it. A little freckle of water lingered on his smooth cheek, and his eyes had both turned invariably cloudy. He tried to lower his eyes, but I brought his chin up effortlessly, then produced one of the characteristically darken handkerchiefs. The initial waver at offering my own fed the urge to do so. There were only two types of persons who never carried a handkerchief on: women and Phineas. And even the former used this as a mean to gather male sympathy or at least attention.

  "_Do you understand me_?" 

 His tears disappeared in the soft linen folds, and he only nodded, mechanically.

  "Yes."

  There were times, little, insignificant times, when Phineas had a great resemblance to a pup, bearing the last's innocence as well. No point in denying it, he could look absolutely adorable, on occasion. I bit my lips. The urge to renounce the other trifles of discipline was rapidly banished. He needed to learn to play the game by the given rules, to give respect where it was due.

  "Yes…?"

   "Yes, sir." 

  Ushering him out, I let go to yet another sigh, in finding the "Spells Throughout the Ages" still blocking the flooring. Whatever was I to do with Phineas? And where was that obnoxious heat coming from?! A newly-infesting migraine dismissed such thoughts. Tomorrow. I'd look into it, into everything, tomorrow.  

                                                                                                                             ~~~~~~~~~~~

   "Oh, darling, isn't it ghastly how everyone sends such divine missives on these occasions?"

   Mama's velvety voice soothed my senses entirely the next morning, when, after a particularly disastrous night – I could barely get an ounce of sleep, and I did believe the reason for this displeasure had as much to do with the overwhelming heat provided indoors as it most likely did with my previous sorrow- I managed to escape breakfast – and therefore encountering Phineas- and went to see her. She was quite cheerful, in her chambers, even though she was planted on the sofa crowning her private quarters, and she was covered tightly by a soft little blanket I thought to be the one Rhosyn had woven me as a toddler. Mother was so insufferably maudlin, at times, and this embarrassed me, since I could in no way share her absurd sentimentalism. 

  The image, while one of a flourishing youth of thirty, was indeed concerning. Mother had never been one to indulge in late sleeps or lingering in her chambers. She was Welsh, so she said their spirit: little words but more deeds, always action, always motion. I remembered her when carrying Phineas. She'd been a beaming spot of constant movement, even then. 

  Now, she had dedicated her time to an intense scrutiny of the missives  

   "Here's one from La Societe des Roses Noires… To our esteemed and most cherished member – did you hear that? Most cherished!- word of an ill predisposition on your behalf has reached us – oh, silly Merrick, he must have told everyone…- and we wish you…"

    "Here's one from darling Moira. She was simply struck, since she was actually there…of course, she sends her best as well…"

    "Now, Brodick, I know it's hardly what you expected…and I suspect Phineas isn't too pleased either – " That was putting it mildly, yes. " – oh, wait – does he know?" I nodded, feebly.  

    "Poor Brodick, it must have been ghastly for you, to have to sort things through, after all the fuss made for absolutely nothing. Why, it's perfectly natural, on some pregnancies, quite so…"

  "So…there's no sign on there having been anything wrong?"  

  Puzzle tangled with alarm in her eyes: "Your pardon?"

  "I…well, it was a very sudden affair, wasn't it? You'd not felt bad before, or the likes, and then-"

  "Brodick, that's hardly something to discuss with a lady!" I opened my mouth to apologize, but she continued softly enough. "Darling, don't worry. No, there was nothing to hint towards it – and I'll admit to it being most bewildering – but it's honestly just a trifle…"  I decided to voice none of my opinions on the respect, and she took advantage on the silence to inquire on the further demeanor of things:

  "How did Phineas take to having a new sibling?"

  "He…he wasn't entirely delighted."

  "Well, I supposed as much. But it's good to know it's only that. Heavens, I'd thought – since he's so like your Father in every other manner- he'd have a fit!"

  "He didn't." I shook my head, heeding again the three rules of the perfect liar. "But he didn't take pleasure in the news either. I reckon the perspective of being second best doesn't hold too much appeal to him." 

  "But I'd never hold him second to anyone, you know-"

 I bravely took her a step forward : "Precisely. _I_ know."

  "Think you I ought to have a word with him?" Women. Such poor creatures, in all honestly. Not their fault the Creator bestowed not upon them any sort of sense – one was to have and show pity for them, whenever one could. 

  "As you see fit, madam."

  "This entire heritage ordeal has always been such a gamble in numerous families. It's why your Father and I initially thought we oughtn't have any more children. And why the entire secrecy was then kept. But well, your Father abandoned his reserves entirely, and…you know I care for younglings, so of course I wanted the pregnancy as well, and-" 

  Her words died softly, as the door opened with a characteristic screech. This had to be the newest polished door of the lot of the house, and still Aristotle, his head beaming from above a silver platter, could make it spawn those horrid sounds.

   "'Totle tea brought!"

  "Tea?" Mother set aside her letters, turning to eye Aristotle with a note of puzzlement. "But I didn't ask for-" a small smile appeared in an instant "Your Father spoils me immensely. I so wish I didn't have to burden him further, with everything on his head, as of late… one lump, please."

  Somehow, the dumb beast managed to complete his task without waging too much chaos while endeavoring in it. Rather a gigantic accomplishment for him, naturally, so Mother's smile – of relief, to my reasoning- , as she took her cup, was understandable. I didn't know why she insisted on keeping Aristotle. He meant well, of as much as I was certain, but there were particular standards to which a member of staff of the Black residence was to commit himself, and Aristotle was well beneath any of these expectations. He couldn't serve without wrecking tools, nor could he clean without half the precious adornments of the place meeting a swift demise. He'd also been ringed, so that we were spared his indubitably disastrous efforts of magical employ. So to what purpose he could actually still be of use, I couldn't decide. But it most likely had to do with either Father's sadism or Mother's sense for the abstract. Both of which always had chaotic results.

  "Master want tea?" he inquired, smoothly.

   "Yes, Aristotle, I think I'll have a cup."

  "Master certain?" He blinked a few times, startle very much dawned in the stunning big blue eyes "Certain?" 

   "Honestly, Aristotle, it's merely tea, not like I'm taking a decision to mark my life for all eternity. No sugar nor cream, however,"

  "Y-yes, master." Another formidable display of "talent" followed on his behalf, as the curiously light liquid was poured in a cup designated to me, and in it alone. 

  He did not prevail in an as graceful a departure, succeeding in colliding with one of Mother's jewelry boxes, and having the little shiny beads lose themselves between the soft folds of the carpet. Oh, well. Couldn't ask for too many miracles in one day.

   Picking my cup, I attended to Mother, who was currently fidgeting with her wand – she rarely used it, save for ornamentation- and most likely fighting the inner battle of either Summoning the beads herself or calling Rhosyn to pick them up. It didn't do for a lady to do a servant's part, still, this was such a trifling matter that, surely, her little  drive from etiquette would be excused…

   I saved her the moral dilemma – pondering the done thing was always ever so draining- and picked them up myself.

 "Declan told me about a new convention of Alchemists," I mentioned in the passing, as I returned her pieces to their place. "Or so he'd learned from his sire. He is to attend this sort of an intervention, these days. And since Hadrian Lestrange depends highly on Father – " 

  I took a first sip of my tea, and immediately revulsion little but won the better half of my control – I feared I would spit the wretched brew out then and there but, somehow managed to swallow in. Ye Gods, what had that idiotic elf made it of? The bits between his toes?

  "Horrid taste!"

  Mother, apparently accustomed to this sort of torture, merely shook her head. "Oh, that's because you didn't take a touch of sugar."

  "Quite." Sugar to Salazar. This tea needed one more thing to be all fit and proper, and that was arsenic. Then it could safely compete for the most excruciating poison of the known Potion brewing. Hmm…per chance, Laurentius might be interested in the recipe? But I digressed, and that wouldn't do. "As I said before, there's a tiresome alchemy convention that would indeed require Father's attention-"

   "You see?" said Mother, sympathetically.

   "-and I'm quite certain he'll have to join. They normally go together."  

   "Yes…of course…" Her eyes were lost in the lecture of yet another of her letters. Abrupt silence installed, broken only as she snapped up to glance at me, in the moments to follow:  "Do you expect he'll be among us by four days?"

  I frowned, subtly. Why precisely four?  "Four days?"  

   "Yes. Four days," she replied calmly, with maybe just a touch of exasperation. Crossing her fingers on the handle, and carefully exposing a delicate wrist from under the soft tangle of her sleeves, she brought her cup up, took a small sip. A lady to the smallest details – yes, I could certainly understand what had dictated Father's choice in his marital pursuits. She was ornamental to the last extreme.

   I decided not to formulate any further inquiries, as her expectant look told me as much that the day to follow these four others marked some special event I for whose disregarding I would not be easily pardoned. Or at all. Gradually, I made a short inventory. End of August…whatever could be occurring then? Was there some-

  As realization dawned in, I attempted to mask my sudden flush by feigning a deep interest in consuming the very last of my tea, It was still formidably repulsive, but I imposed it upon myself as a small reprimand. 

  She offered me a smile, as I lowered the cup from my lips and uttered, somewhat apologetically:

   "I am confident in that there is no way your anniversary might escape his attentions."

   She nodded. "Good, because I intend to receive. A small ensemble, of course…"

  Small ensemble. Really now. Whom exactly did she believe she was jesting to? Mother's reputation had been spawned on account of her balls, and I couldn't think of a time under her reign as lady of the Black when Grimmauld had received less than fifty on a formal occasion. However, one matter did delay my immediate approval.

   "Madam…given the circumstances, would receiving at this time be …wise?"

  Her expression swiftly turned to sheer aristocratic indignation. "Surely you do not think I will spend my remaining delicate days in this chamber!"  

   Admitting error – how foolish of me to think a woman would rightfully understand and ponder aspects beyond social calls – I decided a little humoring would go a long way:

   "No. Of course not. How horrible of me."

  She nodded, a few times, strategically keeping back any comments she might have had on the respect. Her thin fingers slipped over the letters, stopping on a little note, bearing a most curious seal that invariably drew my attention…a perfect circle, sliced upwards by a snake…from where was this familiar? Think, think, think…

   There was a method of recalling. An old Indian educator had instructed Grandsire in its dealings. And then Grandsire had passed the knowledge to Father. And Father to me. And I would most likely do so to Phineas, or any little heirs I might have, one day, however horrible the prospect now currently presented itself.  

  It was an undemanding process. Clean your mind of all thoughts, let the thoughts fill with nothing but the word, voice or image. Then think of your mind as nothing but void, and within it a sphere that this given information created. There was matter in void, for matter was void, as went the Alchemical theory of Erasmus or Rotterdam, in his fifth translation. So one was to compound the other information that the mind sheltered but that had escaped our current thought to form the new layers, being born from the void…

   Well, no one expected it to work, any a how, but it had acceptable results, as far as our lineage was concerned. It had always had. And it functioned nicely for me at the current time, as recognition hit in. Father's newest desk adornment!   

   "Hmm…I think this one is for your Father," said Mama, examining it shortly "Yes, yes, most likely for him. Be a dear and do let it slip in his study, when you go down…people so oughtn't address them with "Black" pure and simple, we can all pick them from the owlery, then…"    

   "Right away, madam." Leaving a half filled cup on her dressing table, and also removing the missive from her little pack, I took this as my cue to make a graceful departure. 

                                                               ~~~~~~~~~~

   "Mother deems this was not for her."

  I closed the door behind me upon entering Father's study. He eyed me questioningly, in the first instants, but recognition then settled in with curious haste in sighting the letter.

  To my understanding, or, rather, to the understanding provided by his current packing, he was making last preparations to attend that presumably secret assembly of the Order of Change. Currently, he was undergoing the lenient procedure of gathering a series of books and scrolls nearside him, or summoning those further towards him by a skillfully cast "Accio". The ones suitable for the purpose of his study were idly positioned in a little pouch he'd either conjured or encountered, while the rest were simply thrown on the desk or the carpet, for Rhosyn to dispose of later.    

  I attempted to avoid stepping on any encouraging reading material while covering the distance between us. 

  "Oh, yes, of course…," he murmured, taking hold of the piece of parchment, and breaking the seal silently, only to scrutinize it with indifference. Would that I could emulate his apathy in the letter's regard, but I was quite forced to admit in that its content had managed to pique my interest.

  Alas, though, whatever hopes I might have had in that he would shed any light on the account for his preferred heir, were immediately shattered as he absent-mindedly rolled the scroll then shoved it in one drawer of his desk. 

   "How very quaint." A smooth thud as another book landed on the floor announced the resumption of his previous activity. I decided to give the subject more ample directions.

   "Do you intend to depart?"

   He measured a large tome with a cover of cobalt velvet; as he turned to it, I could distinguish the marks of the "Great Alchemists of the Old", which immediately brought to mind Phineas and his wonderings. Presenting me a benign smile, he carelessly threw it on the flooring. "A few fortnights."

   "An assembly of the entire Order of Change…" I tested softly. His questioning glance forced a few more words: 

   "Declan Lestrange." 

   "Ah." He sported a thin smile. "Hadrian ought to keep better clutch of his tongue." Another tome met his silent scrutiny. With a small waver, that too took the path of its precedent.

   "I doubt he had too much a say in this."

 Both hands froze on the pouch, for a moment. Then he hurriedly threw two ink containers in, to make amends for the delay. "Is he still getting the owls drunk to check on the mail?"

   It was my turn to sample sheer surprise. It was to my knowledge that this was indeed his fancied method. A small dip in absinthe and then one in cinnamon powder to mask the smell, and then the owl treats were more than acceptable  to be handed out to the otherwise fierce fiends inhabiting the residence's owlery. They fell down  in an instant. One could subsequently then extract the desired missive, lecture to one's liking, and even retrieve it as if untouched. Not like the owl could ever tell the tale, or the likes, even if it did belatedly acknowledge any of the happenings.

   Yes, he commonly made use of this little jest, and I had only slightly hinted to the little rows and  arrangements for accommodations – I questioned, momentarily, just where dear old Declan had lingered the past eve…-  at the Lestrange manor. Still, Father's conclusion was indubitably startling. How had he known? For how long had this particular intelligence been with him? And, more importantly, however could I mask any intrusion on his and Hadrian Lestrange's privacy in their written exchanges, from now on?

  "He's a menace, that lad," said Father, sparing me the effort of further reflections and, implicitly, removing me from my sufferance. He tied the knot to his heavy pouch by a short flick of his wand, and the appropriate charm. Absently, I wondered just what hex he might have imbued so to "repay" any disturbing hands...

   "Nonsense." My eyes swept over the copper satin, taking note of how its opulence, just like that of everything else of the chamber, marked a fascinating elegance. 

  "He's not a menace." I flashed a faint grin. "He's a Slytherin." 

  "Oh, indeed, Slytherin. I wonder, Brodick, whether it was not quite the misfortune, your attendance in the House of the Serpent…"

 This had the gift of startling me. "How so?"

   "Mayhap this will lead to a most tiresome tradition. Your grandsire, a Slytherin. So his sire before him. One myself. And now you. How many to follow?"

  Somehow, the fluid touch of his words granted them an air of treachery, more so than grace. It was hardly unexpected; he was in the habit of testing my reflexes or manner of thought at each given occasion. Still, that he would do so even presently was distracting, to say the least.

  And then my eyes fell on the book, "Great Alchemists of the Old", and I thought of his smile, then of Phineas, of course. And how much did Father know of that particular loose end, any a how? More than he cared to show, perhaps? If so, why had he not taken measures of his own wherre my younger sibling was concerned…then a one reflection reached me, and this was not in the least soothing. What was to say he had not taken matters into own hands, already?

   "I highly doubt any of our lineage would be as dense as to think this House an addition to our heritage. But to humor etiquette and provide an answer…As many as it takes. "

   "To what?"

   "To get the point across. We're Blacks, sir. A Black's is the gift of endurance, even in the most treacherous of pits." 

   "A snake's pit. Remarkable choice of words." He tittered softly. "Your mother would be so very proud. It is from she that you have this touch of diplomacy. I myself am a man of little words. Yes, she would be proud."

  I was relieved at him having offered me the occasion of mentioning a further issue to whose resolving he might have wanted to attend. The dreaded festivity.

   "And while we're touching the subject – Mama's anniversary is approaching. She plans to receive in four nights."

 He rose his head lightly. "I shall return by then."

   "No, sir, I had meant to point-"

   His thin smile accompanied my every dreaded anticipation as, picking a piece of scroll and inking a quill, he idly began scribbling. "After all, a Black's is the gift of endurance…was it not how it went?" His fingers and quill ran on the sheet, tainting it fiercely, in the darken gray characteristic to our lineage. Soon enough a little sum was visible. And then the name of the token…Broderick Black…He was writing me a Gringotts letter for Galleons. Which could only mean one thing. Dear Merlin. He wanted _me_ to see to the preparations behind Mother's festivity. Me. The one who loathed these sort of issues with all the heart expected from one of my status. ME. Should a roar had accordingly expressed my current frustration, I would have obliged in one; but I currently felt there was not enough animal passion even in that.  

  "I'm certain you'll manage with whatever issues might arise," he murmured, passing me the note. I sighed.     

   "Certainly, sir." Trust a Slytherin to skillfully web in another. Oh, but he'd have his, I pledged. The organizer of such a festivity also had a grand say in what seating arrangements were concerned. And I was willing to wager my intolerably inexistent Hogwarts prefect letter on that he would not fancy the dull company of some newly-turned widow or illiterate maiden. Haha, the perfect match – surround Father with absolute idiots. That would surely "please" him to no ends!  

  Seemingly taking no notice of my abrupt change of heart, he bestowed upon me a triumphant smile and a swift nod, and then rose. He took hold of his pouch then swiftly made his leave in a satisfactory illustration of proper Apparating. Halfheartedly, I made my way towards the registers.

   Going through Father's notes was a considerable effort on anyone's behalf, given how half of them at least required that one enlist the aid of a translator. His handwriting, if anything, was murderous for the untrained eye, and the shape and manner he utilized had nothing to do with the matter. He indulged in a series of symbols and forms to with which most were not even acquainted, let alone accustomed to in such demanding usage. Not to mention how his method of calculus had been compounded on a rather crude foundation. Father was hardly a man of education where administration was concerned, as it was said that, by the time he had committed to his responsibility to the Black lineage and produced an heir, Grandsire was already on that damnable and much feared - on my behalf- path of insanity. He had not taken to instructing his successors in the essentials, he'd let them wander off. Which was why Father's writing, even now, after he'd been forced to conform, bore the signs of late development. There were Alchemical equations where the simplest brand of arithmetic would have easily sufficed, and even - of all things!- sketches of the allegorical numbers changing place, in the accounting of the estate's profit during the month of the Equinox. 

   In short, it was all too chaotic, and I had to level the monthly requirements and subtract an estimated value as to what Mother's expenses for the receiving would be. It was to Mother's liking that everything be to the expected Black elegance, so she would surely choose to make use of all her decorating talents on this "blessed" occasion. Or so she'd told me - and as I knew her, this could only have one translation - more Galleons than  either Father  or I would have cared to discard. A half frown to the sum presented on Father's note told of this illicit expense. And to such a futile aim…oh, women were quite the burden, in all honesty. It was still to my wonder that they were permitted to carry a wand; after all, they were only _so_ gifted on an intellectual level, so what was to say their magical performance did not have to suffer as well? Hmm, definitely a theory worth the pursuit.

Calmly, I made my way through the registers. The banking accounts seemed all fit. There was the loan to McAlister - and vault 709 that contained Grimmauld's documents…yes, all in place…glistening in scarlet inking was the signature of Father's accountant, Kayr, on the newest transactions…no new funds, no old - must put them chronologically - dear Merlin, what was Epsilon doing between the sums? And then Rousseau's Alchemic theory between the monthly additions - Gah, Father! Hm, one thing clear, at least, again Kayr's signature on the paper - that new deposit in our vault 711…

   I froze in my place. Vault…711? But we didn't have a vault 711. I knew all the numbers, of course - 708-709-710 and 679, which had been an account created the century before by a thrice - denied cousin who'd meant to get more than his share of the fortune…no, there had certainly not been a vault 711 at my last check, and that had been…when I had just returned from Hogwarts. No, no, no 711, most definitely - then what was it doing there? Had Kayr meant to spell 710? I took a closer look - no, couldn't have. The money to pay for the deposit in 711 had come from 710. No misunderstanding. And here - here, a document on the creation of vault 711…no more than two weeks before! What an Earth - and why hadn't Father informed me of this? 

   I offered the registers the entirety of my puzzlement but, unsurprisingly, no all-knowing entity enlightened me with the worthy explanations. I'd have to check on this vault 711 as soon as I reached Gringotts to pick up Mother's money. 

   With Father's note grasped tightly in my left hand, I scribbled a few words on a new parchment, handing it directly to the Owlery. From there on, it would most likely reach Declan, urging him to Floo his lazy arse to Diagon Alley in an instant, before I'd hex the daylights out of his pretty eyes to the place. Granted, on a much less commanding tone and in a more elegant manner of speech. Not that Declan wouldn't read between the fine lines - but there were certain rules to etiquette, after all, and it wasn't the done thing at all to disobey them. 

Presenting Mother with my farewells - several pleas and promises on returning in time for tea were cordially made from both sides- and escaping Phineas' tired looks in the corridors, I managed to Floo soon enough. So we had a new vault… How …interesting… 

~~~~~~~~~

    "Much obliged to you for offering your company, Declan," I said with a grin, all too aware that the nature of my "invitation" had been a much more likely reason for such a gesture on his behalf:

    "Yes, well, it seemed only fit, given the circumstances." He'd taken my narration of the past eve's events remarkably well, and had merely nodded cryptically in hearing of my assumptions regarding Phineas. 

   "Told you he was a poor little sod," he'd commented, wryly, but he'd had the decency of keeping the rest of his remarks to himself, and we'd bravely indulged in a discussion of the controversial results of the last games played for the international Quidditch Cup. Throwing the topic in his more common range of conversation, I found him a far more enthusiastic interlocutor. After a quarter of a clock, he'd decreed that Spain's team was miserable, that Duglosz was about the most unfortunate Keeper Poland could have hoped for and that, all in all, we had high hopes for at least a second position in the finals.

Privately, I wandered just when my torment would end. After sampling myself as a great martyr, I'd brought the tedious ordeal to an end through this horrid courtesy.

   "So…what's it we're after?"

   "A great many things. However, a small trip to Gringotts would be advisable as a first step." 

    "Gringotts? But why- oh…Twenty-third of August…quite…" It was rather discreditable for Declan Lestrange to have kept such a fine accounting of Mama's anniversary, when I'd so scandalously failed in the same. Then again, I did believe Moira Lestrange obsessed enough as to insist on this being the done thing, and on her son -whose excellent memory had earned itself quite the reputation in keeping grudges- to recall each event, even if only to silence her. Awful brand, these Irish females - let them scream, and they'll do so until you regret the very day in which any of your ancestry stepped foot into the realm of the living. 

We turned left to the corner. 

   "The old hag planning to receive?"

   "She always does, on such crucially valid occasion."

    "Make that on _any_ valid occasion."

   Saddening, but all too true. I nodded, and then we both slid past to the very nearest edifice. Opulence was no fair word to Gringott's newest setting. Gold, silver, magic - they had it all in rich layers. Livened statues of their illustrious ilk who had sacrificed themselves in one great war or the other - a most fruitless effort, in my own view, as it was a fair and known fact that the wizard kin had triumphed over each said battle- greeted one near the doors, and a few silver doves passed our front. One neared me, and, throwing it an even glance, I aimed for the quill delicately concealed through the ornamental feathers compounding the tail, and for the little piece of scroll it kept valiantly tucked in its beak. Scribbling down rapidly was a trait all of Slytherin had learned to value after we had all, invariably, taken on Muggle Studies.

It was rule amongst us to skip once every two classes - too high an attendance to this one subject dragged on an undesirable reputation of Muggle leman, and this would certainly not do- so, in order to compensate, the "esteemed" professor Gens would have us note down entire parchments in an hour, whenever he caught us present. Therefore, fast scripting had grown one of my talents. I prevailed in exhibiting it then and there, while marking up a few notes:

  _ To Maestro Werelyn Kayr, from Lord Broderick Black, salvete. May Fortune and the Serpent have you in their favors. Per chance, could one intrude on your precious time?_

   Rolling the scroll up, I handed it back to the dove, bravely attempting to take no notice of Declan's jests about my written appellative. Indeed, "Broderick" was such a horrid issue, and it was to my misfortune that formality demanded its usage. The dove took off rather lightly, and we followed it... Of course, Gringotts could have easily utilized owls for taking over late requests for appointments, but, then again, they would not have quite been Gringotts had all their mannerisms not sported a touch of flamboyance… 

It took something short of the greatest efforts of diplomacy on my behalf to keep Declan from hexing off a good dozen goblin guards who casually warned that wand usage within the marble altar to the Galleon deity was prohibited. "marble alter to the Galleon deity"... That's a great line! Apparently, even the slightest sensation of helplessness did not suit a Lestrange in any a fashion, and their newest successor was no exception indeed. Personally, I found the sentiment perversely delightful. Control was not an affair of the body as it was one of the mind - and much more one proved to be above their stations, should he or she accept their regulations with superb dignity and proof of being in no way affected by their childish demands. This was a lesson thought well enough in the House of the Serpent, and I did believe it was one with which Declan himself was vaguely acquainted, but towards which he could not lean on account of his endlessly impulsive nature.

    The dove returned to us just as we reached the great hallway, and the content of its current missive was obnoxiously short - 25. Just that. Logic dictated it was the number of the office in which Kayr most likely now resided so we decided to treat this piece of intelligence as a hint to as much. Given his previous quarrel with their kin, Declan remained wondrously silent as we were led through the corridors by one of the guards who kept commenting bitterly on the foul traits of the human character. It seemed that the fact that we, unlike them, did not benefit for more than four centuries of life, was not motivation enough, in their view, for our short temper. I said nothing on the account, as it was to my understanding that a sheer lack of patience and aversion towards eternal contemplation were the flaws all goblins commonly attributed to wizards and partly the reason why our kinds had never truly got along. 

   But finally we reached number 25. We slipped past the door, and its silver replica of the chant carved in the gates to the grand hall: _Enter stranger but take heed / Of what awaits the sin of greed…_I couldn't be bothered with the entire lecture, so I merely paced forward. A great desk - dear memento to Father's- occupied the most of the chamber, and book shelves all around, with dusty old tomes that I did not waver in classifying as Gringotts' registers. It would only fit that Kayr, being their accounting chieftain and Father's devil of the numbers, see to their attendance as well.

    Kayr himself was no pleasure to the eye - an elder goblin, skin wrinkled, nose fairly upturned, and two playful eyes with just a touch of malice. He looked his best in Gringotts' choice of garb for its finest ranking; the scarlet and gold, rouge-et-d'or just as those of the Gryffindor badge, diminished his air of cold calculation and utter control, and normally made the client feel on an equal level with his dealer, therefore entrusting more in his hands and underestimating him. Lethal error, naturally, but so flawed the human spirit is, at times… 

   He was taking down notes of some affair or the other, and paying little if any direct attention to us. Rather, holding this pretence. I had no doubts he was studying our every move and amusing himself greatly with the thought of the foolish little lads strolling through his quarters.

    "Yes…?"  He still didn't look up from his papers. This displeased me, to an extent, but, recognizing the game, I did not let anger play its part. Did he think he could address a Black as he would a commoner? Well, surely not! I was heir to the greatest lineage - mayhap, save for Salazar's himself- to haunt the grounds of England, spawn of one of the grandest Alchemists of this time and the one to have passed, Slytherin apogee myself. I would not have it! I would _not _have it! 

I refused to answer. Declan, however, fell prey to his little flaw of short temper, and murmured to my ear: "What are we waiting for?"

    "Silence." I brought a hand slightly up, motioning for quiet as well. Kayr vaguely graced us with a glimpse, before returning to his calculus:. 

    "Well…?" I would still not answer. Ruddy goblin. Who exactly did he think he was dealing with? Silently, I vowed to apologize to Declan as soon as we departed. The usage of wands should, indeed, have been permitted within Gringotts. I could think of someone worthy a good hex just then…

   "Good day to you, milord Black," noted Kayr, moments after, and his smile told that, had this been some sort of test of will, I'd handled myself rather suitably. "I live to serve, like a toothy house elf."

   We both smiled. "Good day to you in turn, Werelyn Kayr."

   He rose from his place with speedy motions, surprising both Declan and I through a great sample of dexterity, given his age. Then again, mayhap this oughtn't have so bewildered me. "Is that a Lestrange?" 

   "Your pardon. Maestro Werelyn Kayr, this is Declan Lestrange, heir of said lineage, descendant of the Weasleys, and fine amity of the "most noble House of Black." 

   "It is most noble indeed. " He bent slightly forward and extended a cripple hand to reach for Declan's mane. The last merely took a step back, somewhat bewildered. The comedy of his __expression was renewed in my mind, as I recalled his comment, the day before, on house elves and being so ghastly "kinky". 

Kayr silently retreated to his customary position,  although a certain fascination lingered on. "I say, such fine crimson hair…" 

I decided to put an end to the jests and, removing the scroll, passed Father's note upon the desk. 

   "Indeed. I come for the following sum. It has been placed to my disposition under signature - see here, Cassius Black." Wand poised slightly above it, I beckoned his attention towards the signature. True enough, in his discrete inking, the Father's name shone beautifully on the untainted sheet. 

   "Oh, herein I require no proof, young man…you've my confidence." Actually, it was Father's money to hold this grand privilege, not I, but I did appreciate his discretion in studying it through short glimpses, and therefore at least feeding the illusion of confidence in me. 

   "Very well…come on, off to the vaults!" he said, quite abruptly. Before we could actually get grip of him, he was out of his chair, and near the door, pacing madly.

   "_Vaults_?" mouthed Declan silently, as he walked off after Kayr, head slightly bowed so as not to hit the ceiling. I shrugged. We were Blacks, after all…what others craved even in the smallest fraction, we had in a lively abundance. Galleons were simply just part of this last canon.

    The corridors were darken. Dark, and cold, and so very much pleasant. It was certainly a welcome change from the hellishly warm conditions in which I'd spent my previous night, and I enjoyed the sensation to its fullest. 

    Which, of course, could not be said of Declan. Throughout our little journey in the insides of Gringotts, he'd maintained an austere air, mainly swayed only on the few occasions when Maestro Kayr's glances would divert from us. He'd then break into little but fits on how the ruddy goblin was flirting with him. This paranoia of his extended far enough so that, when we'd reached areas of the underground passages where light was a luxury, he'd keep whispering in my ears that he was being …touched. 

What could one say? Such a "fine" example of Slytherin composure. 

    I was mildly surprised in finding Kayr taking us truly down. Not being one in the habit to point to a lack of pieces of intelligence, I didn't voice any questions in this respect, but it had been to my understanding that the Black fortune was kept in the areas above. To my knowledge, the lower cases were assigned to the most secretive areas, and I couldn't think of why precisely Father would want this sort of an ordeal. Unless this vault 711 truly did have more value than one would normally care to attribute to it… 

In reaching the first line of vaults, Kayr came to a halt. So did Declan, a good two feet behind him. Kayr gave him a half-amused look, then started plunging his hands in his pockets for the scroll he'd hung on to, despite his insistence that he believed my every word, of course.

    "Quite. Here it is…"  A faint smile touched his lips as he ran over it, between the one too many items his robes also contained. "Hold the keys, will you?"

Declan's Keeper talents were again tested, this time not as much on the Quidditch field, but in retrieving the keys Kayr tossed him. The last returned to attending to the vault - his right hand slid over it with care, and immediately, recognition of his status as goblin functionary was issued as the cover began to melt over. All impish flickers on his behalf had faded, and we had in front of us concentration materialized under a trifling form. Above all else, Werelyn Kayr was - for all of Declan's bickering- a professional. 

    " All right… Here's your sum, take it like a good boy, Bro-" I frowned. He hastily redressed, "young Master Black."

I nodded and handed the pouch to Declan who - now forced to cling to both it and the set of keys- kept complaining on about how, was if he was expected to play the part of a hallstand, he might at least be offered some sort of payment. It was on the tip of my tongue to mention to him just how imaginative Kayr might be in rewarding him in a more "special" way… my sudden look must have conveyed something of the sort, because he grew immediately silent.

    "Yes…Maestro Kayr, could you possibly hand me the content of vault 711*?"

    "711? I…well…"  He turned to Declan, motioning lazily to the vaults, "boy, you want to take a peak?"

    "It's only Galleons. I've seen more than my share." The words "and drunk" hung between us. We both gave a faint smile. Declan seemed mildly unimpressed, and for a good reason. The Lestranges were hardly gentry of little money. Their tastes and expenses were dictated by a healthy Gringotts  fund, so Galleons could hardly present any further interest to their heir, of all things. This, however, managed to remind me of a more intriguing detail of the Lestrange household. As word had it, they'd run into their fortune quite recently. Which is to say, they were hardly of the nouveau-riche, since their blood was old, and fair, and there had always been a Lestrange at power. Ah, inde ed, always a Lestrange. But then, in the prime of Hadrian Lestrange, something had gone amiss. The lineage's heritage had met an early demise, and apart for from their fancy name, nothing had kept them from disaster or, worse, social disgrace.

   So a convenience marriage had been arranged. Moira Weasley, of a dynasty known for its pure blood and fairly wealthy, as a side bonus, had been enamored and then quickly wed by a much more versatile Hadrian Lestrange. The Weasleys, confrontedwith a pregnant heiress, had been given no chance to object to the union. But rumors had it that up to this very day they had never quite forgotten the incident. Their younger son, with no claims to the fortune in which Hadrian Lestrange now played his game, had taken to assuring that something come, at least, to the benefit of his sister. The spawns, therefore, would be brought up in the Irish ways, and this early education would be granted by the grandsires. Along with this, it would seem, had also been transported the seed of resent towards Hadrian that Declan appeared to sport, and his constant reproaches. Though while the Weasleys might have seen in this emotional display some sort of vengeance, Hadrian Lestrange rested most untouched. Let his son bicker, and his in-laws complain. He had an heir to his name, and the money to his legacy - there was nothing more he could quite desire.

   I absently returned to Declan and Kayr. The last was currently attempting to convince my Slytherin companion of the beauties within the vaults, no doubt so that the two of us could enjoy some intimacy as he told the little secret of vault 711. Because I was, by now, rather sure there was more to that one Black possession than I had initially been led to believe. There were too many security measures taken in its favor, for one thing. Still, he needn't have sought to keep Declan back by tricks and deceit. The Lestrange heir could perfectly well understand the need of for privacy, and would gracefully walk out on his own, should one so request of him. Be sides, I was going to tell him all about my less official pursuits upon leaving. As Slytherins, we had to keep together.

   "Yes…but have you ever seen the Black family collection of ancient possessions?"

   "Does it involve Alchemy?"

    "Nothing as intriguing, I fear. The earlier masters were more enthralled by…Quidditch. Such interesting little brooms they have up there, from their ages…I think they even have a Pensieve holding the memories of one to have witnessed the great Wronski as he  first executed his trick!"

    "W-W-Wronski!Y-your pardon, Brodick, but I'd even lay a house elf to see that- excuse me a bit-" 

Blinking a tad, I nodded. First vague intelligence on house elves as "kinky". Then curious mannerisms in encountering one slightly resembling former species. Now subtle claims to lay an elf. Yes, there was something very peculiar about Declan's demeanor, these days…

  "First vault on the right," murmured Kayr, motioning towards the mentioned direction. A thin sardonic smile lingered on his face until we rested alone. Reluctantly, I had to admit the technique had functioned remarkably. 

   "How did you know?"

   "About the youngling's love for the sport? You did claim him a Weasley..." He shrugged, then carefully walked by me. "Now, about your request…"

   "Yes. Vault 711."

   "Come on."

It took Kayr a bit of bickering and idle curses to either fate or his own memory before settling on which of the vaults placed in the immediate set of cells was the much hunted 711. They ought to have them numbered, I thought, then dismissed the idea completely. Of course they were right in leaving them unnumbered. One could never be too sure, after all. 

   "Hmm…" Tracing a surprisingly elegant - either that or I had been infected with Declan's love for the grotesque- finger on his chin, he examined one vault with care. 

   " Enemies of the heir. Beware." He turned to me with a half-mocking smirk. "For writhing upon you - " 

   "Is the shadow of his wrath," I finished, quite pleased with his choice of lyrics. ""Blood and Silver", verses 71 to 75." 

His eyes lit with mildly feigned glee. "Very well, young Black…Didn't reckon they still taught it at Hogwarts."

   "They don't."

   A thin grin to the both of us. We knew what "Blood and Silver" referred to, there was no question of it. And as Kayr's previous comment had subtly noted, we were also aware of the prohibition of its further mention. An epic poem composed well in the Medieval times - some claimed it had been brought together by Salazar's Seer of a mistress herself- "Blood and Silver" centered mainly on the Slytherin lineage and on the accursed heritage it was likely to pass. It also contained accurate accusations against the traitors of blood, and it had been formulated as a veiled threat for those of tainted blood. The last verses - the very ones Kayr had cited, were clear evidence in that direction. 

   "Well?"  He stepped aside from the vault, giving me full view. "Insert your password, little master. Kayr doesn't look."

  "Password…but neither vaults nor their contents have additional passwords."

A dry chuckle here. "Heh. These ones do. 'Twas changed this very dawn." 

    "Most peculiar…" He eyed me warily, and then the crisped surface serving as a barrier. And I knew what it was that he expected me to do; I knew not how, or why, but instincts were a great part of an Alchemist's nature, and I trusted my own greatly. 

   I steadily extended a hand, flexing all fingers onto the platform. Thin, so very thin…like a membrane whose life pulsed underneath it. It was surprisingly smooth - rather cold, as well. And I could feel its heartbeat - if ever there had been one. We, the wizardry kin, did not interfere in the goblin doings. We did not ask questions to which they would rather not answer, and I had something of an impression that any inquiries formulated on the nature of the little lively "door" would not be appreciated.

"Indeed," noted Kayr wryly, carefully awakening me from my contemplations, and also coming as a reminder that I had not, so far, provided any "password". Ruddy goblin, always thought himself ever so bright. "So I take it you don't know it?"

   "Quiet…" The thin materials upon the doorway little but wrapped themselves upon my fingers. Soft, again, the texture surprised me, at least in this one account. I loved its touch, could feel it tie. As if the little jade link plastered on a possession document had, somehow, connected me eternally to this one piece as well. As if it were more than just an object - and a rather bulky and hardly elegant vault, at that- and I more than its master enthralled by the wonderful riddle it proposed.

_Open,_ I wished to tell it, _open at once. I am a Black, and you belong to a Black, so open. _But I didn't. My mind was still tormented by questions about what precisely the damnable password could have been. 

    "No point, dear boy. No point."

   "Carry off." 

Kayr made no effort to conceal his amusement at my evident irritation:. "Shall you linger on?"

Open…open…

No point. There were better chances of the wall beside it shattering under the power of my unvoiced will. At least that would have the decency to respect a Black, and - was that Declan I could hear whistling so crudely, when silence was a crucial requirement in all goblin edifices? 

Kayr's suddenly exasperated smirk assured me of as much and, sporting an own ironic smile, I pushed him in front of me:.

   "Carry off."

   "Such awful temper, we have."

But he advanced, anyhow, and soon we were both lost to one black none could deny…but at least there would always be light at the end of the tunnel, wouldn't it?

                                                                                                                                             ~~~~~~~~~

  "Blimey, Brodick, it was hardly worth your trouble! What was your share with that vault any a how?"

It had been foolish of me to think Declan would forgive me even the slightest of delays in his company to Kayr. Truthfully, I felt he had rather exaggerated the entire happening, and that, even should the elder goblin master have sampled some sort of interest in his direction, he would have done far better with a more neutral reaction than the open contempt he had sported. After all, the Lestranges were known for far worst worse liaisons. "Supplementary vaults are as much a reason for worry as deficient ones. Its presence, especially for something that small, was not accounted for."

   Explaining anything concerning numbers to Declan would prove a task worthy of Merlin's might, a Veela's charm, and a dragon's temper. It was fairly well known that, of all the subjects Hogwarts' curriculum array offered, his greatest battle was waged with the fully rational ones. 

Laurentius Hasek - this short mental reference to him immediately drew the question of why exactly he hadn't bothered with a new missive, these last days…- had found fit to expand on this particular trait, at one point. After a speech and a historical analysis that lengthened to five scrolls of parchment - and he had such small handwriting, the beast!- he had carefully and, as far as the utilized theories and solidity of the claimed facts went, reasonably demonstrated that the gene for rational thought did not run in the Lestrange lineage. His next aim was, by his own wor d, pointing how brain cells did not run in that same family - pity for Declan. Hasek, making use of the Slytherin character, always got where he wanted to go.

  'Ye Gods, must everything be accounted for, in that blond head of yours?"

  "Mayhap."

  I shrugged, then stopped to get a better look frontward. Diagon Alley had never been all that much to my liking. Swarming like a nest of ants, always in the movement. People, here and there, running about, jesting in the streets, or selling their merchandise.

The little square colliding to Knockturn was the worst. My impression was currently proven accurate just then and there - a crowd had formed, centered on something, blocking the road. Pity we had to reach beyond it to the nearest open fireplace. As a poor flier, covering the distance back home on broom did not please me in the least, so Declan had had to conform to my wish and join me in a little Floo. 

   "What do you think it's all about?" He had slid between the outer ranks of people then returned upon finding no way to get closer through.

More shrugging on my part. "Can't tell. But we'll see soon enough, it's the shortest way through."

And it was. That little Floo square, where all who spoke the right incantation appeared by this method, was straight behind the crowd, and for all it was worth, I still had Mother's request vivid in my mind. Return by tea - besides, there was also the little matter of vault 711 to solve - and I was certain Phineas and I needed a word as well…and one oughtn't forget the blood affair…so much blood. Ye Gods. 

   "Maybe they were your mother's jewels, there for safe keeping?" said Declan, as we both slid past the ranks of murmuring wizards, who kept gasping and chattering about  Merlin knew what! I tried to hear just what it was which had attracted everyone's interest, but a bit of elbow shoving to my ribcage kindly reminded me that one must never actually stop in the middle of a crowd. Privately wondering just how in blazes Declan could afford the inquiry when breathing was a virtual problem for me, at the time, I attempted a response:.

   "In the eve of a receiving? I highly doubt it."

  Most likely catching on to my unease, he only revived the conversation once we'd reached a surprisingly free space in the form of a circle. But there were still people all around, so that could only mean - I looked to all sides. Whatever attraction the crowd had found, it was most likely in our immediate vicinity…and, yes, I could see it, was it that fair-haired witch with the-

   An oblivious Declan took no note to this. "Well, I've no other thou- hey, you! Watch it!" 

   Yes. It had been her. And behind her, a trail of men, all with wands still, now forming another circle, this time against Declan and myself. But the witch held command. Her poise spoke of as much. Dashing forward, and in full control over the limited space, feeding on the attention and addressing the crowd.

    "Freedom for our people! We demand our rights! Release us from this hell!"

She approached Declan who, a tad alarmed, did not look all that pleased with her interest. I rather suspected that he, much like myself, wished out of this mess, and that we had not chosen this path, to begin with it. Squib and poor blood protests! Dear Merlin - these sort of things always had a knack for feeding on violence!

   "What in blazes-"

   "You who hold power! How can you keep us at bay?" She clung to his arms, imploring and demanding all the same for the minimum of his interest to her trifling cause. "My good sir, we are your brothers and sisters, blood of your blood-"

Declan's incense slowly began to rise, with a sudden flush as the sole pointer to this. Unlike most scarlet heads, he did not blush, or burn as easily. Instead, he kept to his dignified pallor as much as his Slytherin composure would deem suitable. Apparently, Salazar's root wasn't deep enough in him to currently shelter his outrage. His fingers had already clutched his wand.

   "No, you're not, get off me-"

  Neither he nor I had the time for this, and our current objective was finding some sort of way out, away from the crowd, from the hustle, and the bastardly lot who wanted to chitchat onSquibs' rights, of all things!

   The witch and her little group narrowed towards us. A warm hand was placed on my shoulder, and then dragged a few steps back, as I was, I could see that the "stage light" had been again presented to the female and, to my dread, Declan. She appeared to have taken to pointing her truth to the mass by converting one of them - my own little Serpent, of all things- to her beliefs, then and there. 

   Looking nearby, I could catch sight of our captors. How many were they? I could safely assume a dozen, all busily entertaining the crowd with their loud demonstrations. But would they lower to bloodshed when faced with the sort of skepticism Declan seemed to have in concern to their beliefs? Would they impose their education? 

    "We have been wronged by a cruel fortune, but we have found our savior!" the witch kept telling Declan. She only shook him further - as if reason were palpable, and it was within her powers to induce it by such a physical means. 

    "I warn you, I hex at three!" 

   "He is Ulrich Grindelwald, and his is the doctrine of the sacred! Support his cause, help redeem our souls!" The audience, for there was now no other appellative worthy of the prodigal crowd, simply eyed the affair blandly. "Bring forth our rewarding!"

But all her efforts were futile. None seemed touched by her little speech, and even if they, in truth, were, they had made a mantra out of simple muttering and nothing more. Declan, however, sported a less tolerant air:.

    "Lacranum!"

  A few flames heeded the command, but the woman slid past, and avoided the burn in good time. Extending my own wand - how strange, it felt to feel its weight but also the inability to put it in use- I assessed that, whatever the cost, it was high time a touch of the Slytherin loyalty was exhibited. 

A snapped whisper to my right - "Take care of him"- and already three of the lot had targeted Declan:

    "Expelliarmus!"

      "Damn you! " And then the flash of light. "My wand! Brodick, they took my-"

   As Declan's wand flew in into their hands - after all, there was only _so_ much a fight one could put on when confronted with three disarming spells - I found myself faced by two in return. Apparently, the two chaps in my vicinity were not all that pleased by initiatives. 

Silently, I lowered my wand. Declan himself, as a dueler, nodded in understanding. The loss of one's wand, no matter the circumstances, was ever the dreadful ordeal. Deprived of our knowledge, of our power, where did we stand, but on the same level with Muggles? No, no, I would not let my wand be taken. Better accused of cowardice than wandless.

Still trapped in the circle, very much prey to everyone's attention, we both seemed to weigh the chances of a quick departure. Futile a scrutiny as it might have been, however. The witch's men still guarded their respective toys - how ghastly to think of two Slytherins of noble blood as ourselves, in that manner- and appeared unwilling to let us pass and be done with it. The show, as one could put it, was hardly over. 

    And the little blonde witch best pointed to as much.

   "Heed our words! Help those ill fated that you love to know again their heritage!" She stopped to let the crowd ponder her words. Pity on her bother. The only thing the ignorant masses could respond to was blood, and, to our growing misfortune, they knew just whose blood to spill, now, didn't they? "We are the wretched, but we too can be brought to light!

    "Help us, support Grindelwald!" She she urged, then turned from the crowd, and to me, she said with an ominous grin, "Support Grindelwald, brother! Support Grindelwald." And with her the men, and then…and then like the plague, as deadly and swift, the word passed through the crowd, and took life in it.

   "Support Grindelwald!" they now chanted, on the sides, and some even clapped. But then they all placed their eyes upon the two boys in the center, the two boys near the witch, who - oh, look, we hadn't lowered ourselves to accepting their credos, now had we? Declan's wand in a bloke's hand spoke quite of the opposite, in fact.

  "Support Grindelwald, " said the witch, her smile still poisonous and present. "Or know his justice."

  A threat. Lovely. Absolutely lovely. 

  Declan groaned. I privately wished to do the same, as one thought passed through my mind swiftly - we weren't going to make it for tea. 


	4. Brodick Black: Letters and Silver

  "Unhand us. This instant."

  Of course, my remark was hardly complimented by the ominous tone to which it had been initially intended. It was quite the effort to both maintain one's composure – a devious attempt with Declan about – and sound particularly commanding when one was tucked in between masses. And while one might congratulate me for the determination, this someone was not to be the fair-haired woman. Her rags still threatening to reveal too much of her skin at any importer movement, she was now beseeching the crowd, arousing it; though they needed little more incense, after their eyes had been greeted by the perfect picture of pale faces at a current loss for words and, in Declan's case, wands.

  Arms spread, she now called in the same pious tone: "Tell us, how many have suffered at your hand? So progenies as these can stroll down the streets with no mercy towards their brethren-"

  "I shall have to ask for the evidence of any association to you, my dear, sweet lunatic." But she continued without faltering. Almost as if I'd not spoken at all, and surely this can't have been the proper way to treat a Black, of all things!

  "-and how many have perished so for twits as these to never know repentance, and how many-"

 "Oh, bloody count them if they're so many!" My sarcasm, however, helped little under the circumstances. And cornered, as we were, and so evidently apprehended, I wasn't easing things in the slightest. Though, Merlin have it, a woman, not even a Squib but merely a spokesperson on their part was threatening me. Me, a Black heir, and one of Hogwarts' finest. I wouldn't stand for it, and most certainly not for witticism on behalf of a – of an ignorant woman! 

 "You bastards, let me go!" Declan writhed in the hands of his assaulters a few instants more, before, with a laugh, they threw him in the center, near me, and near the witch. We hadn't a chance for an attack open handed, since they were still guarding us, and the woman as well. Their point was imaginable. Give the crowd an example. Humiliate the pureblooded of higher fortunes and make an appeal to both the mingled blooded and for those of poorer conditions. Jealousy was a great stimulator, after all, and why wouldn't the relatives of Squibs use it for their cause? 

  The witch had known not pause in her debate: 

  "-have met not the love of their family, or their own heritage, but humbleness, instead? And only to be repaid with constant contempt and spite!"

  "It's only bloody decent of us. Thank yer gods we let ye taint our air." As in most occasions when control had left him, Declan's accent had  grown horribly pronounced, making the frail "aye" no more than a tiny pester by comparison. 

  But he'd only fed her and a few others who nodded briefly – and some more even from the crowd- with reasons to carry on. Argument in the hand of the devil. "See how they treat us? How they despise their own flesh and blood?" More silence from the crowd. 

  "But Ulrich Grindelwald is affected." Oh, indeed? How and since when? "Ulrich Grindelwald will show us the light by his theories of wisdom. " How dense could one be? Of course Grindelwald hadn't the least reason nor intention to do as he had assured them. And I was quite certain such a feat wasn't even in his power. 

   "Ulrich Grindelwald-"

   I couldn't help myself. "Is a fraud." 

   Well, whatever the qualities of my comment, one cannot deny the immense impact it had, and the silence it caused soon after. No more eyeing the woman, no more doubtful sneers – the swarm had turned in the judges and predators, as well. Ours were words to which they would listen, if only because they belonged to a fresh voice and a fresh mind.

   The witch, however, was the most shocked of the lot. Her lips trembled, softly, almost in a ritual. I could discern each angle of her pale face, as she stood there, frozen. A statue, almost. How quaint, yet so lacking in amusement  

   Ho"What…?" She barely mouthed her dismay; Declan, ever the Slytherin at heart, hungered for her startle, her concern, nourished upon it. How delightful it would be to make her suffer still, I could read in the thin sparkle of his eyes, to mock her while she's down… 

   "Listen to one studying the field ye wench!"

   "He can't save you. Any of you." I looked to the crowd, and I wished to tell, perhaps, this is meant for you as well, don't feed on illusions. "I've read his thesis – a Potency Potion cannot act upon the human being. It can't. The magic in you-"

   The fair-haired woman laughed, though her mirth held still the bitter tinge of resent: "WHAT MAGIC?"

   "-the magic in you that is oppressed would burst from within. Tear you down."

   "No, it will not, liar!" Her thin, ravenous fingers pointed towards me accusingly: "Liar! But what can on expect with his father being who he is! Liar! Liar! " She was walking back towards listeners, making her pleads, arguing. Wouldn't they believe her? Wouldn't they suffer for her life and the life of her brethren? 

  I had anticipated some sort of loosening of the cronies' reactions, now. Rather, I had wished it. But they wouldn't attend to the people, along to the witch, and it was by now quite certain that whatever the tasks distributed between them, they would so remain. Their order was not to be broken no matter how dire the circumstances. 

   "Nice one, Brodick, can't very well have just told them introduced yourself then simply walked off?"

  A sharp whisper from my right skillfully reminded me of Declan's presence at my side, much as an all too familiar weight did of that of my wand. How queer, that even the most trifling details appear so significant and new to one when danger or need is about. I had to think, had to think…my eyes swept about the immediate vicinities. Where we hadn't the crowds – still entertained by the witch- circling us, we had the participants of this cruel and misfortunate charade. All about were the shops of Diagon Alley, and not an Auror in sight – the classical approach whenever a Slytherin could make good use of their talents!  

   "Oh, do hush, and-" Along with my scrutiny, so were my words lost. "Declan…"

   With a subtle wave of my head, I motioned for one of the opposing shops that we had passed and admired. Its window had earlier been the target of an immense crowd, which had probably dissolved to form our current audience.  

   His characteristic smirk stiffened visibly. "Brodick, no." 

   "Got anything else in mind other than sheer humiliation?"  
   His eyes flew, for a moment, onto the surrounding gentry. Much at ease as he looked, the tight hold of his lips and the swift arching of his brows spoke clearly of his giving the matter more than momentary consideration. This wasn't precisely a friendly wager, or even a jest that we could escape with not as much as a second glance. This was, for the first time, perhaps, something we had got ourselves into without preparing a subtle way out in advance. Not the Slytherin manner, true, but there was something to be said of Declan's impulsive nature and my own sadly inattentive one as decisive factors in worsening the situation. 

   "Not the done thing, would it be?" When he finally addressed me, a careful, malicious flicker had returned to his eyes. 

   "No. Which one's got your wand?"

   "Right – scarlet hair. Russet robes." 

  I eyed the latter steadily, for a moment, measuring him and Declan both in a snapped glance. While clearly older, the wizard had the benefit of a build no more massive than my ally's. Which made, should the element of surprise be considered – a fair two seconds at best, if my calculations were not erroneous- for a reasonable tie.  

   "Quite. At three, knock him over. One…" 

   "Brodick, you certain?" He was wavering. His poor behavior, now, didn't surprise me. Inconsistency was the primary attribute of a negligent mind. And while always having the best interests at heart, Declan had never mastered the art of thoughts devoted to one purpose and one alone. Perhaps this was where his interest for Quidditch had best found its root. It pleased him to find himself amidst elements in constant change. But much for his disappointment, I held no affection for hesitation. 

  I, on my part, would not renounce the count:

   "Two…"

   "You know you can't-" I waved him off. His eyes widened with a certain wonder. Realization dawned on. Yes, I was going to conform to my role. Would he? There was a moment of loss, and yes, in that instant, I doubted him. I'd never actually dueled at his side – at anyone's side, for that matter. School competitions were all fine and well, but there were rules, there, rules to which the rest would conform and which I would busily attempt to defy by every gesture. I acknowledged him as one of the best that the House of the Serpent could have offered, the best Hogwarts still possessed amidst its ranks – but here, now, would that be enough? Would he fail me? 

   Something snapped in him. Apprehension, perhaps? I was never to find, since in a moment, he shouted:

   "THREE!" 

    A small crash accompanied his abrupt leap towards to the keeper of his wand. He only offered me a last glance, rather cold, for a change. Almost…spiteful.

_  I'll never fail you…_

    Nodding, I set my wand towards the precise window panel, and then - "Accio broom!"

  It was all a matter of seconds, really. The scarlet haired man was delivered a blow he was not very likely to forget all too soon, since Declan's aim – much to his credit- had been incredible. Whether he had or hadn't recovered his wand was another matter entirely, and not one I could gamble the time to verify. Instead, my own move took motion: with a few cracks, the window smashed, and the broom shop's finest darted straight to its summoner. 

   In the back, the shop keeper was crying atop his lungs; but whatever forces to sustain peace had been about, the Squib parade had most likely taken out before their manifestation. He didn't even require unarming on our part, since, sighting him with his wand out before the broom's flight itself, Grindelwald's league had relieved us of the trouble! 

    A quick thud announced my last move, as one of the pouches that Weyr had produced landed at the man's feet. 

     "Your pardon, good sir – Declan, do tell your dear sire that the Blacks have just seen to it that that broom of yours be commissioned!" I shouted, but was offered not the chance of more, since by now the group had already noticed our massive movement – the last I recalled before inelegantly plastering the soil was the sound of a quick set of Stupefys as they were being launched, and then the splutter of reddish flickers half a meter above me. Damned be their speed!

  The crowd was moving, dispersing at least; commotion was to no one's liking, and I could well wager the little interruption in their speech would not place us in the fanatics' graces. Declan was keeping his own ground – rather, broom. He'd mounted it, though hardly in the usual fashion. Feet balanced properly on its handle, he was shifting his weight whenever each cast was executed. And while this worked poorly on a speed level on his part – since not falling off the insufferable thing was also to be guarded- it was better on a defensive one. He could swish and turn and somehow avoid some of the jolts of sparkles as they came, and- 

     "Don't even consider it, we paid for that!" Rising to my feet, again with an uncharacteristic lack of grace, I had to unite all my remaining energy in a series of Lancranum meant to prevent one of the men whose wand was directed towards the broom. By the looks of his constant mutterings, a few escaped murmurs and his unwavering attention, he was intending to transfigure the broom into a tea cup!

   "Brothers! Don't – don't leave! Listen, see and listen to our torment!" The woman was praying, tearing off the sleeves of onlookers as she clung to them, beckoning them to stay. Crying, almost, though I doubted those were tears from the heart. And if they were, well, so typical that a woman be the first to submit to the weakness of her nature.

   I turned to my position. And was there at least one ruddy Squib at this thing?! Sadly, no time to ponder that either. What with us being their sole focus, now, our chances had diminished to a bare. Which meant extreme measures were to be taken. I braced myself for the true hell-  

   -and Declan, now seated properly on his broom, was opening hell's gates. Darting past me, he only as much as extended a hand, lowered himself a bit, and then shoved me at his side with not as much as a by your leave. I was much more grateful to him for this little gesture once the unmistakable crimson of a Stupefy passed directly through the place I had only a moment before inhabited. 

  And then dashing past, with a ravenous motion, Declan accelerated the thing correspondingly. We were now far too high and at too great a speed for my liking – and the latter was only increasing, now, as he clashed down, straightening his lead softly so as to keep the equilibrium. He was a Chaser, and an impressive Quidditch player, from what little of the game in which he had participated I had seen. For him, this would be a mere routine, no more, and this incredible twist amidst the exact crowd of onlookers we'd earlier frightened off, well, only a trifle! But then, why was I still praying to all forms of magic for some sort of aid of that horrible broom?! I blinked as he again neared the ground, indulging in a series of turnabouts to escape a few more Stupefys. His mirth was unmistakable then, as passing the fair-haired witch before ascending a second time, he called out:   

  "So sorry not to linger for tea and biscuits, love!"

  I hadn't a chance to bid my farewells. I was too preoccupied with clinging to my end of the stick and banishing all possible thought of the lengthening pits beneath me, and the height, and the people, and… it was going to be a very long journey. 

  We'd left London well behind, by my estimations; though I can't have been too certain. I'd only once flown in the nearby, and even then regretted the dreadful experience to no end. Declan was wondrously content, and this I could tell by the strange demonic look on his face, and the cackles he wouldn't restrain. I reflected on my words. Yes, so very much the demon, with his blazing hair, and his lighted eyes…  

  "This thing as gracious as they say?" I inquired, in an effort of sounding matter-of-factly.

  "Oh, Merlin, Brodick, I forgot!" He choked on his laugh, panic overwhelming his fair features. "Listen, just close your eyes, and you won't-"

  Merlin, I wasn't- I wasn't-

  "I'm not disabled, in all honesty!" I'd not intended as forceful an inflection on that queer outburst, and the result had been a hurt look on Declan's behalf that I was not as easy with ignoring. I lowered my eyes, and I expected he would have to comprehend this was the closest to an apology he would be delivered: 

  "I just don't enjoy flight, that is all."

  "Hold on, then," he murmured, with an ill-mannered wink, and I told myself, again and again, of course it will be all right, it has to be, has to be. But I privately knew, much as I suspected Declan to know, that my intolerable flight panic wasn't as much a matter of jest as I would make it. I didn't fancy transportation by broom for a reason, just as I had barely passed this subject in my first year at Hogwarts for a reason. If anything, I was the most thankful being in existence for the abandon of Flying classes after that, and for Apparating once one was of Age.

   I couldn't fly, just as Father couldn't bring himself to do so. I hadn't inquired on his own symptoms, since he'd carefully decreed it as taboo. Father loathed being reminded of his failures, much as I did, and so we had never discussed my inexcusable freeze as soon as the broom was beneath me. My eyes would grow inexplicably lost, and I knew as a fact that most of the times I would just think of how unsteady the thing was, how one couldn't support oneself accurately on it. And how wrong it was to rely on such a tool, and weren't all those Quidditch players round the bend, aside for lacking any intellectual merits whatsoever? Because they were all quite the crude brutes, after all! 

  Perhaps, well, I had so heard from my Muggle Studies Lessons that the latter category did have a more unique mean of transport in the form of the bi-sickle. I couldn't be all that certain one the appellative, naturally. It was inbred tradition amidst Slytherin ranks that most classes revolving on Muggles be skipped periodically, lest the impression of one being a Muggle lover be generated. And that wasn't the done thing at all. Though as a prefect, I could attend and claim my curiosity feigned – but I wasn't a prefect yet, which meant all plans for a bi-sickle that could fly would have to be postponed until such letter would be produced.

    I chanced opening my eyes, and looking about, even down a little, just to see how much we had until home, and – ye gods. Brodick: 0. Nature: 1. I was going to be sick.   

~~~~~~~

 "Tea's served," Mother welcomed, with a fantastic smile on her part and quite evidently both surprised and enchanted by our making it on good time. But then, of course, pinning her wand in the direction of the grand clock she still – pointlessly- used to adorn the main corridor, she chirped a benign, "You're late."

  True. Two minutes past the decided timing. Luckily, she'd had her letters – a devious glance to the pack still oppressed by her delicate fingers- to entertain herself with.  

  "Last moment acquiring," I explained, and near me, a smug smirk on his face, Declan bowed accordingly and displayed his new piece of equipment. Mama, by now, was twittering with delight.   

  "But what have you been doing, dears? And what a mess you've both done of your robes, and what was it you got yourself into?"

  Silently, I made for the first chair towards which my poor frail feet would carry me. My stomach was an intolerable mess, and a mite too insufferable one so as not to be taken into account. I hadn't yet spilled the little of the meal in which I had partaken that day, and somehow I wasn't in the least grateful for this particular aspect. At least that would have spared me the periodic spasms assaulting my insides, and the ghastly headache that kept plunging in the back of my mind. 

   Almost like a band of Dementors knocking at the gates behind which laid their entire rival body.  

 "We were accosted by a crowd of protestors. We were forced to viciously Stupefy and then consequently fly our way out."

 Mama, taken aback for a moment, didn't hesitate to burst into laughter: 

 "Haha, what a tale you weave, Broderick, but won't you tell me what truly came about?"

  Declan was flabbergasted. Apparently, it had never crossed his mind that the female mind could be so abominably small and undependable as to never even consider the confessed truth. Not too much rational thought was to be expected. She was a woman, after all, and-

  I twisted in my place, and vaguely considered requesting one of Mama's concoctions. I didn't, naturally, since only a complete ignorant of any sort of etiquette would lower as much as to both show weakness and depend on one's own mother. But the tumult was increasing. Cold sweat had overcome my face, and the panting I was doing -much to my shame, since it reminded one of the horrendous animal instincts that would not be stilled- had severed. 

  I rose, meaning to excuse myself and take my leave to somewhere private, where my saving option could be less appallingly undertaken. But just then Mama decided to part with a newly opened missive and bestow upon me the full of her attentions-

 "Pet, do go fetch Kant, we'll owl Moira and tell her Declan shall be staying the eve – won't you, darling?"

  "I am-" Declan gulped, for an instant. Much more a master of the wand than words, that one, and no wonder Hasek had such a delightful time at his expense. He appeared to invite ridicule, on occasion, and losing any touch to polite pleasantries was such a circumstance. I was in no mood to comment on it, however, and merely whispered, as Mother had turned again to the windows:

  "An absolute idiot." He frowned. "No good? Oh, well. Greatly indebted to the graces for the mere invitation…" 

  Loudly, he recited: "-greatly indebted to the graces for the mere invitation, madam…"

  "And I've not enough praises for your laudable initiative." I sighed. I did believe he did so as well. He wasn't precisely keen on big words.

  "And I've not enough praises for your…" He rolled his eyes. "…laudable initiative."

  Enticed by her thoughts, Mother took a few seconds to reply. Though her right ones be trapped in clutching a letter she'd been inspecting, the fingers of her left hand now brushed a small medallion I'd known Father to have honored her with. While a beautiful asset indeed, it also made for the object of much fidgeting, and therefore display of one's either distraction or anxiety  Which were both unsuitable, since they reflected too much of the bearer's emotion; I had always encouraged her against wearing it. Not very graceful of her… but again, this was not the time for such things.  

  "Oh. How fetching of you, Declan," she finally interjected, with a studiedly neutral voice that she had taken long years to perfect. "Would that some of it rubbed on Broderick as well, but no such fortune, I fear." 

  Declan's laugh echoed shallow. "No such fortune indeed." 

  As again Mother lectured that particular note,  I leaned towards the pest, muttering helplessly," Out."

  We both, this time, prepared to depart. We'd neared the door – well, Declan'd actually prevailed in passing it- when Mother's hand snapped back up in a disconcerting sign.

   "Brodick, a word with you, if you can spare me the moment." 

  Reluctance would have been a gravely misused term to describe my current lack of any sort of enthusiasm. Not only was I lamenting the opportunity of seeing Declan perform on his new broom, which was bound to be a unique show due to his talent for the thing, but there was also my ailment to take into account. There'd been one too many delays already, and I was indeed growing a mite anxious to be ridded of company…

    But I mentioned none of this, and merely seated myself again, wincing inwardly as the door closed behind Declan. And with it, my sole salvation. The sensation provided by the sudden contact of her sofas was curious, but beneficial, all the same. The silk felt more accurately fine, and enchanting; her chairs weren't as comfortable, I acknowledged. A common and damnable trait of all the chairs at Grimmauld, it would seem.

   "I've not the slightest knowledge on how to tell you this," Mother began. She was pacing smoothly along the light carpet, her feet staggering, almost as if part of her willed them to stay. It had grown obvious, for me at least, that whatever had caused her ill disposition was somehow related to the letter she still kept at her side with frightful vigilance. "Brodick…your father…"

  My pallor must have increased. "He is unwell?"

   "No, pet. Hardly as…" Her hand reached for her womb, rounding it protectively. Her palm appeared lost in the waves of a velvet whose voluptuous nature her fingers seemed eager to discover and protect. "Hardly as dramatic," she finished. "But your father, well, he is a man, you see."

  I nodded, patiently. Much a woman as Mother be, she was scarcely unwise to the bone. She was also too startled, at the moment, for any true silliness to be the root of her troubles. So I said nothing on the idiocy of her remark.                                                                                                         

   "And men often engage in the understandable satisfaction of their needs… " I looked from her, for a moment, closed my eyes. Nausea threatened to take full siege; there was even the vague sensation of a faint nearing by, and I loathed every minute of it. The darkness was somehow more stilling. "And of course I understand this, it is my place to understand, after all, since men will be men, and he has always been so discrete…"

   That word, and it alone brought all thoughts of the war waged within me to an end, and had me refocus on her tale. This was indeed a truth I had long suspected, perhaps because it would have been so unfitting, so much not the done thing for Father to bother Mama with this sort of thing periodically, and, well…  

  I inhaled. "Father keeps a mistress. Is that what you mean to tell me?"

  I could discern her gasp long before actually hearing it. She nodded; yes. "You mustn't pass false assessments of his character because of this." She shrugged faintly, directing most her powers in that saving  - or perhaps damning?- piece, the letter. She clung to it as a Dementor in the dark clings to the first fragment of a soul it encounters. 

   "Your father is a very considerate man, and I _do _appreciate his wish not to weary me, and, well… it was harder at first, I expect, when I was younger – since I did marry so terribly young, you see, I was the starlet of my season- I actually pestered him with fits of jealousy, then, but I'm all right with it, now, truly I am, truly…" I hadn't the faintest notion of how I was supposed to react to such an ordeal. Her knuckles on the letter had whitened; her arms had tensed, were trembling. Chancing a look upwards, I could see she was on the verge of tears. 

     What did she wish me to do? Oh, it might have done for me to embrace her, and say kind words, but why, when she was so incredibly selfish? She was well aware of how uncomfortable these sort of scenes made me feel, and was still putting on theatrics for Merlin knew why. After all, had she any reproaches to make, then surely Father would be a more advisable interlocutor, and not I. And wouldn't she please cease weeping at once? 

   This was not my cup of tea in the slightest. Emotional rebukes, all that, horrible, the lot of it! Completely against all etiquette! Hadn't she a clue she was utterly humiliating herself in front of her own son? What need had I of her sorrows? Gods, she was submitting me to this since she believed my composure too would break – well, haha, Mother, it hasn't, it won't, I'm the perfect heir, and nothing you or anyone else can do will have an effect that, I shan't disappoint Father or the Black lineage like that, I shan't. 

  But then, a certain thought cornered me. The letter. Her confession. Of course. Father's mistress must have offended her; Mama must be craving retribution, and who else to come to her aid but her elder child? Vengeance made for better incense. I could savor the smell of it.

  I inhaled deeply, a second time. The queer sensation had not abandoned me entirely. 

  "Mother…has she written?"

  Her eyes widened with more than tears; awe had instilled itself with painful clarity.  She regarded the missive in her hand with a curious indifference. Almost as if she had never laid eyes upon it, and was too appalled to do so. Her lips parted thinly. 

  "No."  A pause here, sheltering my wonder, amongst other things. Such as her dignity. Why tell me this now, then? Because of the child she bore? Was her delicate condition the cause of such impertinence and lack of manners? I couldn't imagine even that as acceptable enough a motive, but it was my only alternative. 

  "But her sire has. To accept the invitation Cassius has issued their family. To the receiving…on my anniversary." Her voice trembled no longer. In fact, it hid quite the inbred determination, there, and one I wasn't too certain on how to treat. A slight issue stirred my thoughts – Father's mistress was as young as to still require chaperoning on behalf of her sire? Was Father thick? No one ought meddle with virgins, wedding rings or scandals only came out of that! Merlin, he'd been the one to inform me of that.

   I stifled any groans. _You mustn't pass false assessments of his character because of this_. Mama's one moment of glory. 

  She hadn't finished her discourse. "Since you're in charge of the organization " – and how clear it all was, now! Father's reasons for not wishing to handle this on his own! He hadn't wanted to deal with his mistress either! Oh, what a deck of cards I'd been dealt…rather the Fool in all this mess, they'd made of me-  "I had wished to ask of you that you see to her convenient seating…and that she cause no motion. She is young, you see…" her eyes lowered, yet again. She must have recalled the times of her own early youth, and how she too had ensnared so many with the gift of a batter of a lash. 

   I gazed upon her, for a moment. And just for that moment, I sensed a certain loathing for all that I was, for my entire gender. I saw her as she was – a woman still young at mid thirty, who failed to either comprehend or reach her husband. A woman with the soul of a child, forced to live in a world containing that same sparkle she adored, but at the same time, lacking it per whole. And I – a man as I- was responsible for this. 

   I rose from my place.

  "Of course, madam. I will see to all that you have requested. Fair evening."

   Perhaps she had expected an embrace as I fled, a kiss, or at least a caress to placate the tears perusing on her cheeks. A light sparkle died in her eyes; I walked away without any of these.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  

  ~~~~~~~

   "You fine, mate?" 

   How Declan had spotted me instantly was not a matter for my current concern. The nausea was still victorious in the battle over my senses, and I barely kept to my feet. Sliding a hand over my shoulders for some sort of meager support, Declan intervened at a proper time to attend to me, and do so rapidly:

   "Awful flight sickness, what can one say… " He shrugged, causing me to level off slightly; I cursed myself for accepting this sort of dependency upon him; it wasn't the gentlemanly thing to do in the least, and I truly ought to have controlled myself better. But this wasn't advice for my stomach to willingly heed. A bright flicker crossed my eyes from Declan's nearest pocket – and downing a tad, I managed to snatch the recipient of what I believed to be Father's most prodigious wine.  

   I examined the label. 

   "Tsk-tsk, Declan…" 

  Much as Phineas would have done when caught with an additional chocolate in his share, he gave me his most angelic smile. "I was just taking a look at those divine cabinets in the receiving hall, you see, and it just beckoned to me…" 

   This precise phrasing brought startling memories of that damned eve, and the Firewhiskey…and then the blood writing on the mirror…My stomach spoke its disagreement. 

  I glanced at the wine bottle. "Forget that! Weren't you going to share?" Though still decidedly queasy, I had to admit to urges in this respect as well. 

  But a search for formality was something of which Declan was deprived; thundering and thudding the door, Phineas made a remarkable entrance to the corridors.

   "Je la deteste, je la deteste ! " There was no mistaking the target of his slurs, and aiming a glance towards the back of end of the salon, I could still distinguish the vague flutter of azure lace. The French must have been delighting in yet another victory, one could say, since it took no skills in Divination to see that a severe argument had taken place between Phineas and his governess. But who exactly had triumphed I couldn't tell; Phineas' fury had banished all signs of either shame or exhilaration, and the manner in which he now frowned upon us spoke little of civility and tolerance of any sort. 

   Declan, by no way grieved or affected, welcomed him with a nod. "Why Brodick, never knew you'd engaged yet another house elf…"

   "You blind, Declan Lestrange?" Phineas spat, most likely in the worst humor my faithful Slytherin peer had yet to see him. "I'm no elf! Maybe your vision would improve if you left more bottles unopened-" 

   Declan raised the wine a slight up, measuring it skeptically. "Want a dip, little elf? Perhaps growing a backbone would suit your height affair as well!"

   I waved him off. "Don't even consider it, either of you." Warily inhaling for the thousandth time in a short number of hours, I valiantly attempted a few steps. "He's too young," I coughed, in an end, then recalling a slight matter, forced myself to intone:

   "Declan, you sent Kant with a note?" It took him a moment to understand I was still referring to Mother's petition. Moira Lestrange, much preoccupied with her younger and disgustingly difficult spawn, Aidain, was constantly hindered by her motherly instincts. Declan's absence would surely not escape her attention, and there was much to tell on just how far a Lestrange would consider going when his or her blood was in presumable danger.   

  "Yes," he said, his fingers still toying with the bottle. Sighing dramatically – much too so, for that matter, and I made a mental note to comment on this demeanor as completely intolerable tomorrow- Phineas fled, with what I distinctly believed to be a "Merde!" parting his lips. How obnoxious of him! His accent was fairly acceptable, though, and-

   Oh Merlin, I truly was going to be sick. I could scarcely make out Declan's snapped whisper, something about us having post, and then the entire room was so ghastly blurry and shaky. 

  Declan was still talking. Which one was my chamber? I couldn't reply instantly, no, not at all. Why hadn't I agreed to getting off the broom when Diagon Alley hadn't been in sight? Well, that I could answer, my bloody vanity, little good as it was now doing me.  Had I eaten anything that day? I couldn't tell. Had I? I truly couldn't tell. 

  And what a mess I was most likely doing of myself, hardly the done thing at all! Yes, that was what I pondered, while my feet slipped under me still; my stomach was twitching unbearably, and, well, it hadn't occurred to me until then, that perhaps it wasn't the flight sickness entirely. I hadn't reacted nearly as badly last time, though the trip hadn't lasted as long then, and I had at least held the advantage of handling a broom of my own. Still…this wasn't natural, wasn't natural in the least. 

   The most sensible thing now – and I did think I mentioned this to Declan as he was doing his best to drag me past the corridors – was for me to undergo the fortune of a few good hours of sleep.  

   As beneath me winced the fine crafted sheets, I embraced all the benefits of the few hours of rest for which I could hope. And with them, the darkness…

  "I can't teach you sarcasm, you puny blood-of-my-blood," I was quick to inform Phineas, the following day, as I fought off the numbness in my eyes, and that in my every limb, still under the reign of a sleepy stupor and the nausea of the night before. My head pulsed that wonderful sequence of painshots that normally come with the blessing of weakening well before one's allotted time, and under circumstances as dire as Phineas' wails.

   Already, as soon as dawn had crept in, he'd posted himself by the side of my bed, having me raise him, effortlessly, and place him on one of my many spread cushions. He was light, very light, and this didn't do much to encourage me. True, I had been a very, well, skinny, child, myself, and was making an equally wraith-like adolescent – but somehow, Phineas had always been a slight more on the normal side, so I was forced to wonder whether part of his sudden loss of weight had any to do with his worries concerning the child to come.

    "And I'm willing to wager you would make for a poor disciple, even if I could." Despite my fiery reply, I was by no mean in a foul mood, but rather, if anything, savoring my last days of rest with an unusual passion. I was jesting, and his understanding of the matter – of perhaps his mere determination?- was made very much clear as he gave me his finest pout, in a valiant attempt to reconsider. I decided to tease further: 

 "So why, pray tell, ought I make such a perfect waste of my time?" I could easily divine why, after the little séance with Declan and his absurd teases, but that was another matter entirely. I would rather he tell me; he didn't disappoint:

  "Declan Lestrange. Is. Horrid." He was saying all this as he pounced on my covers, throwing cushions around, and making me wish I could jinx him a bit and show him some manners. I was just considering some sort of idle threat, when he concluded his efforts at turning my nicely arranged dormitory into the complete chaos I knew his to be. He started pulling off my cover, instead, and then, with a gasp: 

  "Only privates on?" I nodded, vaguely aware of the faint brush of cool air on my sweating skin. Of course I wasn't wearing anything else but for the privates, what with the entire vault affair, the other day, it'd been only sensible that I'd forgotten to check in on the source of the mysterious heat. Having pestered me the entire night, I had gone for the second best solution. Tucking his lips in dissatisfaction, Phineas didn't seem to grasp the whole of it:

   "Mama doesn't let me sleep only with privates on. Mama says 'tisn't decent, and that I ought use my sleeping robes. But I know she doesn't, at times, neither does Papa, when she doesn't." I groaned. It took no Seer to catch sight of his following words, and pulling a cushion over my face, barely stifling a second growl as well, I braced myself for hell. It came under the form of polite, but definitely curious inquiries: 

   "I caught them a few times, making noise, loud – why wasn't he wearing any sleeping robes, Brodick?"

   "He was," I muttered, fighting his fingers off, as he viciously tried to relieve me of the pillow. "you just didn't see them."

   His indignation was beyond efficient confining of any manner. I rather thought he meant to make a point by his extravagant passion, if anything: "I did too, I saw the whole of him!" 

   "The whole?" Gulp. This conversation had the potential of carefully perverse imagery that I couldn't possibly explain to the innocent mind of a six-year old, and most positively not at – a look at my right, where a subtle timely beat bore still its life – five in the morning! 

   "As in- the entire whole?" Oy. The word…

   Frowning, a little, he admitted to part of it. Apparently, Father'd had the time to draw his covers to the middle, but even a revealed torso had convinced Phineas that no sleeping robes had been involved. And much a cause for his frustration – and couldn't he please dismiss his own robes and flaunt his little pale skin?- as this currently was, I could only imagine the devastating effect that seeing the true happenings in my sires' bed would have had upon him. 

   Poor child. So young, so naïve. So irrevocably easy to deceive.

  "They were invisible, Phineas, Merlin, don't you read any? It's a very common spell." Apparently, whatever Creator had tried His hand on making my junior hadn't left out some rational thought. He countered:

  "Still, why would Papa make them invisible?"

  Putting on my best mock indignation look – by now the cushion had already been removed- I tried my best at a reply of sheer and utter pretended indifference: "Do go ask him, next time you run eyes upon him. Tell him you're in the habit of following the "noise" in his bedchamber as well. "

   He let go of the matter, much to my satisfaction, but then quickly added: "But is it the done thing, then? Even if they are invisible, he doesn't appear to be wearing them, and didn't you say the done thing is all about appearances?"

   "Bloody hell, Phineas, it's much too frightfully early for this conversation!"

   "All right. All right. I shan't be queer anymore." But had I expected clemency of any sort, I was gravely mistaken. Pawing my chest for just a moment, he declared in a bored tone: "Hmmm… You've no hair. Papa does, and Darius says it's the manly thing to have-"

   Oh no. Not Darius and Phineas' fantasies, at this hour! One would think even his imagination and his "amities" would find it essential to keep to some clear points of etiquette and not displease until noon. Apparently, however, someone had failed to inform my dear sibling of this crucial fact, and as a result, he was still pestering, and including the little characters of his mind in his ploys shamelessly. With a resigned sigh, I shifted on my tummy, causing him to swiftly descend on his own posterior and off me. 

  "I'm so very certain Darius' low opinion of me shall traumatize me eternally. Do excuse me while I go off and weep." Or go to sleep while trying was the untold truth, but I restrained such words fearing that they might encourage him to further conversation. I truly was enamored with the prospect – just an hour of sleep, just one more, come Phineas, be a darling, shut up, let me sleep – I could almost feel my eyes closing, dreams approaching – blessed sleep- and then-   

 "Brodick?"

  Miraculously, I managed to neither growl nor hit. Too hard. The covers under me were most likely enduring excruciating yet blissfully silent pains:

   "Oh, for the love of Merlin, what! I ought to teach you sarcasm, one day, it'd only match your natural sadism! Can't you tell it's a trifle past five? What?!" My sudden outburst appeared to have caught him aback enough as to win me a few well cherished moments of silence at its finest. I could have well gambled my last Galleon that he had gone as far as to keep his breath. 

   Generously, I tried to put in words my annoyance, still praising my linguistic – and therefore Slytherin- gift for diplomacy. Where affection and manners had evidently not prevailed, could, perhaps, reasoning with the little beast be a better course of action?

  "I am a man in growth, I've needs and desires, and one of them , Merlin have it, one of them is sleep!"

   He eyed me dumbfounded. "But Brodick…?"

  Oh, that was it. I renounced my title, Slytherin heritage, Black one too, whatnot, even my sleep. To Salazar, I felt like bloody cursing my own lineage just to know Phineas would somehow suffer! But, of course, no notes of this private war of mine were made by my dear vicious tormentor. Instead, arms crossed on his chest, the very image of the triumphant slayer guarding its prey, he kept me in a long, cold glance, then solemnly announced:  

  "I'm hungry." 

"Phineas?"

 We'd adjoined into the kitchen. The beast had spread its robes upon the grand chair destined for the head of the home – Father- or in his absence, the heir. I mentioned not this aspect, and instead I, the wraith, took my stance, at the other end of the table. An honorable position, still, should one admit that he was indeed standing at the head.  

  I'd managed to scrape up a soft, unidentifiable cream from bits and pieces of useful Charms I had collected throughout my diminished attendance of the classes. I hadn't an affinity for them. Transfiguration was so much more delightful. Alchemy was beyond praises. 

  But Charms did redeem themselves by being thoroughly accessible. And even now I gave them merit for ending Phineas' complaints and coming to my aid in feeding him. Well, perhaps the latter act was not completely implied. I'd had a taste of the cream, merely so not to poison him, but where it ought to have been an immense failure – much to my satisfaction, the product had turned out beautifully. Which meant Phineas' lack of interest towards it had a different cause entirely…

 "Weren't you the same crow ravaging my bed and drooling at the mouth at how poorly you're being kept?" Weary eyes met my own for an instant, before, slowly, he refocused on his plate.

  "I was. Am." Grudgingly, he took a spoon of the cream, then fidgeted it all the way through the bowl, as if the eating process had suddenly turned into some sort of a crucial dilemma.     

  "Isn't Darius famished?"  He shrugged. "Well, listen, you called on me here, woke me up at a bloody early time, on top of it, so won't you please at least tell me why?"

  "I want Papa back."

  "Well, I'm sure Mother agrees. Have you…talked to her, by the way?"

  "No. She called aunt Mo – Moira Lestrange. Again." Hid spoon reclined in the sides of the bowl with a small dump. "Ordered a cradle.  For the babe. I just hate it, Brodick, hate it, and is that so very wrong?"

  "It's only natural, Phineas. Come now, be a sport. A gentleman, at least. I… what if I had said the same things or believed them any when you were a babe to come?"

  "Didn't you?"

  "I expect I must have thought them, at some point. But no, not too long," I chided. I needn't have shown sympathy, then, not if I wished to impose a sense of discipline upon him. But the fact of the matter was, that while the Brodick now facing his sibling with a very amused glance could afford to jest on the affair, the Broderick Black of six years ago hadn't been as wise.

   I clutched the memories to my awareness fondly. No, not as generous, then, never that. Of course, I hadn't had the preposterous outbursts in which Phineas had indulged. If anything, I had behaved myself as the Slytherin apogee of propriety; a faint smile to Father, felicitations to Mama. I had even drank in Phineas' name. My first toast. All the while burning inside with a passion that could never truly be either denied or acknowledged. 

  I had meant to take his life, then.

 _ "Are you certain?"_ echoed the low, gentle voice of Laurentius Hasek, a mere nine too, at the time. But still on his way as to be a disciple of the Brewing Arts, and therefore more knowledgeable in the likeliest potion that would satisfy my needs. 

   Shakily, I had made a gesture of acceptance. Forcing my hands, I had extended my spread hand to accept his gift of death.  

  _"Give your mother this. Half a spoon, no more, and your troubles shall be solved. So long as she hasn't more three full moonrises." _

  How cold it had sounded! How queer. That a life could be ended, as easily, it was unthinkable. And to the child then, it had seemed too much to ask, too horrid. For two months I had waged this war with myself, urged my sensible side to it. I would awake during nights of no initial startle, and walk to the little case adorning my chamber, my fingers hungering, seeking. I'd locked it with my journals, then. With the little Alchemy volumes of which I would relieve Father. Death and knowledge, all in one. How ironic, then, that the knowledge of Phineas' life had nearly brought about his death.

  But I hadn't had the power to slip it in her medicine or her meals. Then the three full moonrises had passed, and it had been all over. By the time Phineas was born, I had thoughts of Hogwarts to haunt my mind; as we both grew, there were ideals of being the perfect heir to cloud my senses.     

  Phineas shifted in his place, the sound of crushed velvet awakening me from my reverie. He eyed me warily. "Declan Lestrange said-"

  "Phineas, you can't deny Aidan is an absolute pest."

  "No…" He blushed thinly, most likely recalling the same occasion as I, when Aidan had been his obnoxious self at its best, transfiguring the ends of his robes into serpents and letting them writhe. I'd come in just the time to see Phineas keep his composure with Black dignity – then burst into tears for two days, at home, wondering why, oh why, such people existed, and wouldn't there please be someone to end their miserable lives?  

  I had then failed to mention that this was precisely what I was intended for. I hadn't had the heart to have my first duel for the family's honor with an absolute git.

  "You have to be patient. Think of good and noble affairs, pray for the babe's soul, should you believe in such things." I didn't, but this wasn't a Black attribute in the least, and I knew Mother had always embraced religion. Most likely due to it being the newest trend, at first, but this little connection of hers to the Muggle world had somehow strengthened, not faded, with time. "You'll be good to it."

   "I'll be good to Mama," he amended, which was hardly the same thing. But it was also the most I would get out of him, at the time, so I knew to keep myself quiet on the matter.

   "You lot here?" an obnoxiously vivid Declan exclaimed, dashing into the kitchen. He bore the same bright smile as per habit, and for a moment I loathed this impediment against my seeing through his behavior. Though inexplicable my reasons, I could not accept that he was as jovial as he appeared to be, even though he had most likely been giving his new toy a round; flying commonly performed miracles on his temper. 

  "Hullo, midget. Brodick. Checked on your post?" My startled gaze must have convinced him of my complete distraction, for soon he remarked: "Still off in the head a slight? You oughtn't get on a broom, too soon!" I groaned as he twiddled his own in his fingers, his eyes lit with that possessive expression one would normally attribute to the victor of some celestial battle entering his kingdom. 

   I frowned, though more due to concentration than true anger. Flying…my illness…the post…oh yes! As if a daze had risen from my mind, I grew alert, conscious. And then proceeded to feel inexplicably lost, almost as if the night before I had been another man completely. And the memories that I now cherished were mere visions of this man behaving in a fashion I would never pursue.

   Declan had mentioned our having mail the past eve; he'd seen it when he had sent Kant to bear the missive to his dear Mama. 

   "It escaped my current attention, no more," I informed him, l as coldly as one could so as to convey the message without causing offense. The meaning of it all was simple: don't talk about the events of the past night, I'm in no mood for them. He caught on it with remarkable subtlety. 

   "Quite."

   I nodded, then rose from my place. "Come, then. Let's see to what it's all about."

  With a smile, Declan took off, a short inquiry stirring my own mirth – could he possibly fly to the owlery, since the salons were all so very big? I could hear Phineas, still pinned atop his bowl of paste, snorting lowly. Poor youngling and his version. I was under the vague impression that he was trying helplessly to stifle his own laughter.    

~~~~~~

  "I say, old boy," Declan began, idly perusing his sharp gaze over the owlery. "I think the grey one had it." 

  Gently pushing him away from the entrance, I stepped within as well. I had never ceased to marvel at the owlery's exquisite beauty, much a futile chamber as Mother often called it. Marble flirted with golden plates, the result birthing an opulence that only seemed fitting. The dusk of the floors contrasted with the indescribable purity of white as it tainted the ceilings and the supporting piles. But the windows – rather, only their openings- were the true polish, the novelty. They made the chamber resemble a tower, offering it that fine fairytale quality that only objects of beauty can generate. 

  The Blacks had never been a lineage feeding on modesty. And therefore, I had my doubts that Declan was not too surprised at sighting five owls at our service. Most households kept two, at best; but again, we were not the plebe.    

  There was Mother's pet, a fair, white thing resembling her mistress. She had birthed one of Father's beasts, Varvaro, of which he made good use in his dealings with the Ministry. There was also Papa's directly personal owl, Hague, the one by which missives to the Order of Change or of personal nature were delivered. From a corner chirped Kant, the one to be assigned to Phineas as soon as he could make proper use of it. Formality had deemed that the boy acquire an owl as soon as he had appropriated the skill of writing – but since he never did have need of it, Mother had taken to its care.

  My own beauty was absent, currently. Most likely now pecking Laurentius Hasek's fingers off, demanding that he reply to my invitation that he join me immediately. Which left only one grey owl. And as our eyes crossed with a certain note of satisfaction, both Declan and I neared Hague.

   She was Father's image, or at least his devoted shadow. A light greyish sparkle had flourished on her feathers, and for years in a row, she had provided me with full gasps. Grey owls of this brand and majestic dimensions were seldom born; and never did they look for human company when they were. 

  She twittered at first, her sympathy for us quite evident. She'd been issued a reply, or else the author's owl would have come by.

   "The missive," I murmured, my hand settling near her foot. The scroll had been linked to her limb too tightly. Small wounds caused by the excessive pressure burnt her displeasingly. Deciding to spare her further suffering, I placed a few fingers to relieve her of the weight, and-

   "Ouch! That crude brute!" This from Declan, at my left. For a few seconds, I could not fully comprehend any of it, the sting in my hand. And then blood poured out, in a thick, crimson layer. She'd pecked me. The thing had pecked me! Gritting my teeth, I voiced no complaint; all the time, inwardly, I was wishing upon her the entire maelstrom that those hexes to which I was familiar could provoke. True, loyalty to the master alone was expected. But, to Hades, I was the heir, the respect she was to present me with was part of my legacy.    

    "I am a Black, " I gambled. Mother's words had returned to me -  _Yes, yes, most likely for him. Be a dear and do let it slip in his study, when you go down…people so oughtn't address them with "Black" pure and simple, we can all pick them from the owlery, then…_    

  "This note is for a Black," I continued, while her gracious eyes fixed me sternly. And damn her, Hague couldn't understand the entirety of it, but she had just – I looked at Declan, only to find no sympathy there- but the owl- "and the blood you have spilled is the blood of a Black. The missive, " I hissed. "Now."

   A moment passed, and then another. With the light echo of air brushed, the letter fell into my hand.

  "My thanks to you, Hague," I called. But the owl was paying me no attention. Instead, her eyes glinted in one sole direction, fixed upon the blood still parting with my hand.

    "You did well," I said, in an attempt to make amends. It discomforted me to see her so lifeless, caught in her guilt. Lost in the blood. "You did well in giving the note." 

   Still no merry chirp. Not even the raising of her head. 

    Wrapping a hand over my shoulders, Declan pushed me towards the corridor. "To your father's study!" He was chanting, in a decidedly queer interpretation of the Slytherin Quidditch hymns. 

  I laughed with him. What else could I do? I even permitted him to produce a small plaster, to protect my hand from further blood deprivation. I laughed on and on. But my heart wasn't with it. My heart was with Hague, and that absurd moment, and what I could only think of as an ill omen. Something magical had just occurred; and this something was beyond my reasoning.

~~~~~

  "Declan, your pardon," I called, belatedly, stopping in mid descent on the stairs. Already down, and heading for the great oak doors of Father's private study, the Lestrange heir merely offered me a questioning glance. "I'll linger for a moment."

  He did not inquire on my abrupt decision but did as told. I took a small moment to thank all graces for him not being as difficult and obstinate as always, that day. Perhaps his new broom had work its wonders; Hadrian Lestrange ought have acquired it for his son many, many days ago. As soon as he'd solicited it, in all truth. It made Declan so much more malleable.   

  I could hear laughter, somewhere. The time was a tolerable enough for wakening. A mite past nine. I ought have enjoyed such privileges myself. But then again, Phineas hadn't left me much room for choice. And Mother might have had need of me…

  Thoughts of Mama immediately brought my attention onto the weight in my hand; it was crisped, and folded at the ends. Which could only make it a note of parchment of true quality, as poorer scrolls would have torn in my hand, broken. I had made no effort to show any clemency to it. 

   Perilous reflections had haunted my mind ever since I had left Hague's starving gazes. The deliverer had been Father's owl of personal relations. The writer had been held in as great a regard by Father as to be waited on for a response by his favored pet. And then Mother's accusations of Father having a mistress…

  It might have been from her. Billets-doux exchanged… and even if they were, wished I truly to know?

  I rested there, on the staircase, for a few moments. Memory was generous with me a second time. What came to mind was my remaining aside it, a few nights before, whilst Merrick had seen to Mama. Occasionally, my eyes would fall upon the note, and its rigid seal; a phoenix's eye, and therefore not one with which I was excessively familiar. The phoenix bird had never been a popular fiend amidst wizardry gentry. Muggle-born considered ravens their bearers of doom; to us, phoenixes were none the better. 

  But would I do it? Had I any interest in this? I deemed my part here unfair, unpractical. And again I saw blame only in Mama, and her moments of doubt, and putting her burden upon me, as only women can. 

   Where my mind wavered, my body did not lack determination. Before second thought be given, I held in my possession the writing as it laid bare. Well, done it had been.

  I consolidated this belief with a few assurances. It was the done thing. I was the heir; should any matters concerning the family be involved, then they should be to my awareness. For the future, if nothing else.

  The first words that attracted my attention were understandably fascinating: vault. 711. I let my famished eyes know satisfaction. I read it all.

   _To Cassius Black, fair fortune._

_  Vault 711 has undergone the procedures you have recommended. Where the rest is concerned, the same as before. Let the year reflect old wisdom, reflect it evermore. From the heart to all extents, through the old tongue, or the new. Arithmancy and has always been to your liking, after all. A par see'um to you. _

  I retook the lecture a few more times. This note spoke of so much, and yet…so little. What did it all mean? And what on earth had it to do with vault 711, the only password protected one of its kind that I could think of?

  Steadily, I made for Father's study. Much was amiss, here. Much indeed.       

  It took a commendable effort on Declan's part not to hex the life out of Aristotle, as the last couldn't find the keys to Father's private quarters. Warred against magical intentions, Father had seen to it that the keys permit none but himself and his twisted thoughts entrance to his study. And since one could always rely on Aristotle to make an absolute mess of even the triflest assignment, one oughtn't have been in the least dazed by the result. He'd lost the keys. Declan had suggested a good Diffindo about his ears to see whether it did anything for his memory.

   But, finally, we'd come inside. Leaving Declan to the appropriate polite words on Father's good tastes in elegant furniture, I went directly for the bureau. One too many tomes had overwhelmed the wooden plate, and I myself wondered at Father's great gift of doing away under such poor conditions.  

  I had only his drawer to find, the one I knew he had utilized as shelter for such things, when he had last received a missive – but then it occurred to me that Father would not then happen upon it there; he might believe he had gone over it, were I to simply let it lose itself amongst his other papers. 

   "Took you long to read it…" Declan remarked, and his comment somehow stirred in me forceful demons. He was not humoring, now, not when I had so much upon which to reflect. 

   "Though I expect it must have been intriguing. " There was no mistaking the note of curiosity in his words. He was irritating me, now, irritating because he knew me so well, and of because I had certainly not done the done thing by checking on Father like that, and I was growing so much like Declan, and it was horrendous, since I was to be the perfect heir, and Declan was anything but that, and – did he have to be so bloody crude?

   I thrust the letter on the bureau, turning to face him. "Enough of that!" I spat. A light look of concern crossed his features, and I could sense he had admitted his error before he muttered, uncomfortably:

  "Your pardon, Brodick." I waved him off. I oughtn't have shouted as unfashionably as that, no matter my annoyance. I was fifteen years of age, after all, and an heir. Above all things, an heir. 

  "That fell off," he added, and pairs of eyes locked onto a whitish spot on the heavy carpentry. That thing… the circle picture of the orchid weed, and the serpent slashing it…I kneed to retrieve it. Declan did so as well.

  "Roman numbers..." his long finger traced the side of the circle, where, curiously enough, the  X, L, V, C and I had been carved subtly. I hadn't taken notice of them the first time I had laid eyes upon the object, a few days ago – when Merrick had come, and then that other letter, and then vault 711 had begun to be involved in the accounts…

   Ye gods. Could it have had some sort of meaning…? And what were those fifteen little squares at its base, aligned so wondrously?  Playing with it, Declan brought it up, on the bureau. With a trembling hand, I stretched the letter's scroll yet again. 

  "I think…" I began, "I think this may bear some relation." I gave him the letter to read. He did so without the slightest hesitation.

  "Roman is the old tongue of wisdom, Brodick.." Certainly. It was the foundation of our every spell, and the language preferred by all our ancient chronicle writers. "There's no doubt the year aspect concerns the Roman numbers. Perhaps a sum?" I nodded. That would definitely include Arithmancy, as well – though more often it was the science of more complex procedures than this. Still…

   "The reflected year…" Scrupulously, his eyes scrutinized the item. "Only fifteen spaces to be filled in here, not much of a reflection."

   "But there's a heart. From the heart to the extent," I cited. "The thing reflects from the center – space number eight?- to the ends…"

  He laughed. "Numbers reflected to from the middle to the end? Making up a sum…? Merlin, Brodick…that's a bloody riddle!" 

  I had to agree. But nonetheless, I picked the end of a scroll and together we started on a possible combination. The solution continued to evade us for a good while, until, with a triumphant expression lighting Declan's features, we encountered our savior! 

  " CLXXXIIIIIXXXLC!" Add them up and one got three hundred sixty five. They all also reflected on the I. And much as I raised the problem of the year bearing the additional day, there was no persuading Declan – no matter how much Slytherin factor of determination was introduced- that this was not what we had been looking for.

  "Now, to get it there," I pointed, the wand I had projected smoothly upon the spaces caressing the spots with generous flickers of light. A curious look encompassed both our faces. Surprise tangled to despair – whatever was one to use? We attempted Summon charms, then even a set of Encryptings. All failed with an undesirable passion.

 I was weary, at one point, weary to the bone, since nothing worked, and I was tired, and what was this all about, letters and vaults and ivory objects and Father's mistress, and- 

 "Accio! Diffindo! Impedimento! Wingardium!" A quick series of spells were quickly summoned – I didn't know which, and I didn't care – though one too many Imperas ought to have been involved, because so many of the smaller decorations came in a swift ascent, rotating, twisting, madly – Merlin, this was magic. And it felt so good to be like that, a hurricane, a transmitter – yes, let it flow through you, out of you, let magic take all your troubles away!

   I was relapsing, and I was fully aware of it. A breakdown, most likely, and I also acknowledged this sort of magical display as something common to most of my amities. This was the theory behind Declan's dueling, since he so needed to let out the entire magic in him. And Laurentius took to Potion meddling, and well, I had Alchemy, true, but that wasn't enough, and my head hurt, and everything was floating all around, the room, the sparkles, and I couldn't think. Couldn't think.           

   "Well, A par see'um to you too!" Declan burst out, throwing the letter off in the middle of the room, and maintaining it locked up by the use of either a Wingardium Leviosa or an Impera.  

  All too suddenly, I froze in my place. Silently, the papers and tome fell nearside me, in a wave of oppressed motion containing so much thought, so much…life.

   "Say that again, Declan, " I beckoned. His suspicion was easily stirred as a devilish smile flared upon my pale lips. "Say it faster."

   "A par see'um, says right here!" I'd pointed my wand at him, now, laughing heartily. 

  "And again! Faster"      

  "A par see'um! A par see'um! A par see'um ! What are you doing, Brodick, I-" 

  But I offered him not the chance for complaints. Merely flicking my wand towards the spaces on the object, the little squares, I recited:

   "C! L! X! X! X! I! I! I! I! I! X! X! X! L! C!" and then with a dramatic slash. "APARAECIUM!"

  Nothing occurred, at first. I almost assaulted the thing with an Incendio. A small illusion I had mentally portrayed chanted on my lips, and then in the squares… slow, short, the wave prolonged, drying the end of my forces and nature's, but this time under my very control…

  The letters appeared. 

  And then, as Declan too gave in to mirth, a thin cap fell off the circle, parting it in a U. And from it, a silver dust plummeted down, covering the bureau, which succumbed to its material presence. 

   Our amazement was the food of dreams hunted down by those who wish to remember. There was even the distinct note of queer satisfaction, at never meeting the ideal, never touching it.

   "What is it…?" Declan's words resumed that dream that I had so many a reason to pursue. I couldn't tell, much as I left my fingers wander onto the silver dust with enthrallment. 

   "I don't-"

  A thud interrupted all possible thought, as in darted Aristotle, a tray of tea – how delightfully and frighteningly obsessed of him!- in his hands. His voice was quivering, but his announcement lost all depth as in also strode my own, my loyal pawn, Dante. 

   "Someone to see you, sir…"

  Abandoning the dust, both Declan and I walked down to the main corridor.    

~~~~~

   "Lau-Laurentius!"

   The excitement on Declan's face as he overwhelmed the darken figure at my door in a fierce embrace was too powerful for even a Vanishing spell to dissolve.

   But Laurentius' sarcasm was not broken by any of this. Salazar might have exercised his magnificent return to life in front of him – and Laurentius would have first commented on the delay before rejoicing.

  "Paws off, Declan, my ribs are about as sensitive as your vanity!"

   "Brodick." Coughing mildly, and stepping back a slight, he measured me a bit, before declaring in an amused tone: "Hail the Prefect!" 

   Of course, I wished I could have found in me the power to smile, but I didn't. The same little sting that had overcome me at the owlery was doubtlessly present, even now, as I had scratched yet another day off the count. Slowly, my hopes began to contrast my expectations. No Prefect letter yet. How decisively dull.   

   But I wouldn't spoil the enthusiasm in those bright, grayish eyes. 

  "Not quite. Do come in! How did you-"

   "Come by?" A quick snort on his part announced that the journey hadn't been to his liking. "Let's just say that the post isn't the only thing that can come by owl."

   "You didn't!" This from Declan, who'd already endeavored in removing Laurentiusþ cloak, and was now giving him a hand with the packages. Or looking for one addressed to him, I couldn't quite tell. "Rode an owl, did you?"

   "Not by owl in the literary sense, you pervert." Declan's swift "tsk-tskl" made it obvious he would have truly delighted in the tale. Hasek, however, was unwilling to say more on the matter, and merely started walking off, with no regard in the slightest for the house elves or manners as a whole. His impertinence was striking. I loved every minute of it. "It was just something I'd rather not discuss, and – Gods!- Brodick, if you'll be so kind as to direct me to my chambers, I'd much enjoy a bath."

    Barely containing a laugh, I nodded. "Yes…of course."   

  It wasn't the prospect of preparing him a room on such short notice that I found amusing, but Hasek's own continuous fear concerning his personal hygiene. It was no news to any of those even relatively familiar with the art of Potions that several on the enchantments and potions were offered to the brewer for protection against the more corrosive elixirs. A less prestigious detail, however, was that these last potions had curious additional effects, most often giving the skin a sleek, inhuman pallor, reddening the eyes and greasing the hair and nails. 

   As I had once pointed out to him, the more hours one spent brewing, the more underlined these consequences would be, and with time, they might just grow permanent. But Hasek, wanting to both hide his activity and maintain the perfect Slytherin image, hadn't merely conformed and hoped for the best. No, instead, he'd developed a ritual of baths, three, a day, sometimes even four. So excessive was his cleaning, that often the odor of fresh soap and oils was intoxicating. But informing Hasek of that…   

    Well, I'd had my own little experiences with the last, and had learned my lesson. Therefore, with Declan on hand, and Aristotle bravely picking on all of his suitcases, I made to see for his accommodation.

   "So, any notion of what it may be?"

  We had now parted with the halls and Hasek's chamber – I had assigned him a nice bedroom quite close to Declan's, but, most importantly, as he had insisted, to the bathtub – and even undergone the difficult task of exchanging pleasantries with Mama and of making the arrangements that Laurentius have his bath. Now, with a silent yet grudging consent, Aristotle had disclosed Father's bureau, and a few moments after my inserting that ghastly code, we were scrutinizing the content of the queer circle.    

   Declan, spread nonchalantly onto the same little sofa I privately detested appeared to be quite at his ease. I was still busying myself with the constant slurring of the damnable chairs, the same ones whose intolerably hard backs were shoving my own with hateful ardency.

   "Not the faintest," Hasek assessed, throwing the thin silvery dust a last malicious glare, that spoke well enough of his discontent at being unable to identify the matter. I had believed he would show a bit of reluctance in introducing himself to Father's less public belongings – I wouldn't admit to the word "secret" since this would not only imply Father actually having a life inaccessible to me, but also that I hadn't a right to intrude into it, too. Well, he behaved himself with surprising cold blood, and required none of the convincing I had initially deemed worth putting together mentally.  

  Ever the professional where some things are concerned, I thought wryly. His next inquiry wasn't as vexing:  

  "Given it the three-four by now?" 

   I shrugged. "No, we were rather expecting some sort of an accurate analysis before proceeding."

   "Well, you'll just have to do without one."

   "Any hexing involved?" Declan's sole intervention, for all it was worth, appeared to have woken him from his stupor of boredom. If anything, he was quite eager, and I was almost disappointed myself in having to deny him this chance to display his numerous talents in the field:

   "Afraid not. " I turned to Hasek. "Ought I do it?"

  It was his turn to sample that sort of mild disinterest only a bit of tension can bring about. "Why ever not?"

   Nodding, I picked four sheets of parchment, grateful to Father for his having taken this asset to a location were such tests could be waged without too much evidence left about. We needn't do too much or too little, lest we risk both wasting the substance pointlessly – a fair gamble in itself, since, knowing Father, he would have surely weighed the whole of it- or pointing to our activity.

   Now, the three-four wasn't an essentially Potions related process. It was also present in Transfiguration, as well, to an extent, so it was logical to have found it in the many Alchemical studies as well. Given Father's interests, it was more probable for the powder in itself to have been Alchemical by nature – whatever their twisted, irritating nature- than Potions, so I would be more efficient on the whole. 

  Asking Hasek's opinion on it had been a polite compromise I was making with him, and nothing more; and I did believe – or so his immediate moodiness would say – that he was aware of it. 

   But returning to the three-four, I accepted a few of the tools he presented, and mainly the two recipients for weighing, a little spoon and a separating ket. The three-fours, the poisons which also gave the test its name, I produced on my own part, still praising my own instinct of Alchemical self preservation by always carrying small samples of them around.

   Piling very small equal quantities of the dust in four – even though I was fairly certain, by the color of it, that there wouldn't be need for more than the conventional three- I began assorting the poisons. The test in itself wasn't all that demanding. Pour the right quantities in, heat properly, and then leave nature to play its own role. 

  Legal as they were and much for their extended usage, the poisons weren't easily found. Each belonged to and worked with an area of magic. Its annihilators, the ones with which the powder would combine would dictate the nature of the dust. Four, they were – magic of element, magic of transition, magic of stance and magic of presence. The fourth, that of thought, was rare, and little but extinct what with time and its influence on the history of magic. When Transfiguration had flourished, so had the magic of transition, and so on.  

  At any a rate, they were vague, as fields, but they each had a set of subsequent rules, and they would help determine, if not the substance in its own right, then the manner in which to further treat it. So I was quite looking forward to it. Or so I willed myself to believe, with a last sigh, before adding the first of the venoms.

  The sweet smell of cherry wood invaded my senses far before I could see the white dust incorporating it smoothly. The scarlet it obtained from the poison lingered in the air, almost as if a light source had been created. But it died off soon enough, in its place snapping a husky darken powder.

   "Not element, " Laurentius stated; in my concentration to toy with the tools, I hadn't taken note of his presence so very close to me. 

   The second poison followed. A jade flicker there, and it lasted so long, that I had accumulated high hopes that the powder was related to the magic of transition. But it, too, faded.

  My certainty was on the magic of stance, now. Which made the entire thing a slight tedious, truly, since dusts regarding the magic of stance were simply common, and not worth that much interest. The magic of stance was crude in its own right, any a how. 

   But for the sake of Merlin and not wasting the third poison by too much air exposure, I inserted it – a bluish root, there…burning…burning…then fading. 

  It took me a long time to acknowledge one of the three gasps entertaining the room as my own. No. Can't have been. I must have miscalculated the quantities for the other samples, been in error in one of the tests. Yes, that must have been it. And the jade light of transition had taken so long, so…

  "The last one, " Laurentius said. The fourth vial left his hands, felt cold in my own. I poured it. Then I, too, waited.

  "The dust…" I couldn't say it. Though confronted to the combinations' characteristic silver sparkle that wouldn't damnably weaken, I couldn't say it. "It's intended for magic of presence, magic altering the mind, " I noted, the neutrality in my voice perfected throughout years and years of pretense. Merlin…amidst Father's belongings, this thing was…I barely forced myself to add, "Which also makes it rather illegal."


End file.
